


Brave New World

by erelis



Series: Dreams and Fables [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Avvar, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 06:21:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 83,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5616748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erelis/pseuds/erelis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he leaves Tevinter, Dorian has no idea where he's going, only that he's going as far away from his homeland as possible. Much to his chagrin, he eventually winds up in Ferelden. And it's there that things really get interesting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grumpyowls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyowls/gifts).



> I wrote this story as a Christmas present for my best friend, [sovietdistilled](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sovietdistilled/pseuds/sovietdistilled). She encouraged me to post it for others to read, so here it is. This story is complete, though due to the length, I will be posting it in three parts.

Much to Dorian's considerable disgust, the morning dawned with all the makings of another miserably cold, snowy day. He wasn't stupid. He knew that the south was colder than the north and had weather that was only seen in Tevinter when an enterprising magister wanted to make a statement at a party. But knowing a thing in an idle shoved-to-the-back-of-his-mind kind of way with all of the other bits information about the rest of Thedas he'd acquired over his lifetime and knowing it from firsthand experience were two completely different things. After a week of this wind and snow and freezing temperature nonsense, he discovered that where it pertained to this particular topic, he rather preferred the theoretical approach to learning. 

It wasn't a bad place, Ferelden. It was just cold and brown and terribly dull. And the food was awful. He'd only had to stop for one evening at a dilapidated shack masquerading as a shabby tavern in the midst of a few ramshackle hovels that the locals evidently believed was a town to learn _that_ fascinating tidbit of cultural trivia. It was an unfortunate fact that he'd been forced to review throughout the night and into the next morning, as the abominable slop made him dreadfully ill.

All in all, it wasn't an experience he wanted to repeat, so he'd become somewhat more discerning about where he dined. That such an attitude meant he was relying on whatever he could cook himself from his meager provisions on the campfire he lit each night was still an improvement over the alternative.

But oh, was he ever getting tired of roughing it.

The trouble was, with only a mediocre supply of coin to his name and no real destination in mind, he had to make do for himself until he happened into more money or got wherever it was that he was going. And in the midst of a war—things being the way they had been at home, Dorian hadn't bothered to concern himself overly much with current affairs across Thedas prior to his abrupt departure and hadn't had a very clear idea of the sheer magnitude of turmoil the mage-templar dispute was causing—he couldn't very well go around advertising his magical prowess. Especially when his appearance marked him as being from Tevinter.

It was easier to avoid notice if he kept away from small settlements or lost himself in the crowds of large cities. Unfortunately, since leaving Kirkwall, he hadn't encountered any of those. Evidently, Fereldans had something against cities and avoided gathering in them like they had the plague. Of course, given the standard of hygiene in these parts, well, maybe they were on to something with that.

Either way, it didn't make Dorian's life easier, and right now, making his life easier was at the top of his list of priorities. Right next to having a real meal and soaking in a proper bath for at least an hour. Possibly two. It would take a lot of hot water and soap to get rid of all the grim he could feel getting caked into his skin with every minute he spent out in the wilderness. 

Surveying the view from the front of his poorly constructed tent—and that was being generous: it was a few large pieces of sailcloth, oiled to keep moisture at bay, thrown over a branch and weighted down with rocks—Dorian saw a great sprawling forest full of trees, shrubs, high grass, rocks, and varying grades of terrain all the way to the horizon. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the enormous Frostback mountain range vanished into the clouds. Even from where he stood, he could tell that the tops of those mountains he could see were covered in snow, a sure sign that regardless of what might be sitting on the other side, he did not want to go that way.

After a few minutes of scanning the land and waiting in vain for some helpful sign to materialize out of the ether and point him in the right direction, Dorian glanced down at the map in his hand. It was an act of desperation to consult such a treacherous thing, but he was running out of options. He'd won it off a man in a tavern in Kirkwall and at the time, it had seemed like a stroke of good fortune. Now, with a little more experience under his belt, he was better able to assess the quality of his winnings and he thought it looked like it had been drawn by a drunken pirate who had never actually seen dry land, much less traveled the route he'd laid down on the parchment.

Half-tempted to set the useless thing on fire and flip a coin to determine his direction, Dorian reluctantly folded it up and slid it into his pocket, thinking that maybe he could make a copper or two off of a gullible idiot if he ever managed to find his way into a drinking establishment before he died of old age, the outdoors, or some dire illness he was sure he was going to contract if he didn’t find his way to civilization soon. The sun was up, providing light so weak he couldn’t feel even a trace of heat when he stuck his arm out into a nearby sunbeam. There was precious little daylight these days. If he wanted to make any headway, he needed to get moving while he could still convince himself that it was warmer and therefore more comfortable to travel than when the sun had slipped from its zenith.

Breaking down the campsite took less than half an hour. He didn’t have many belongings to stow away; most of his time was spent wrestling the sailcloth into a square small enough to fit into his battered pack. When he was ready, Dorian cinched his cloak a little tighter across his chest to better ward off the cold, settled the pack straps onto his shoulders, picked up his staff, and set off with only one backward glance to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything. It wasn’t as if he had anything of value left save for his staff, but it was the principle of the thing. After a lifetime of having all the material wealth he could possibly desire, he had very little left to his name now. He was loath to relinquish any of it. The Maker only knew when he might acquire more.

Just like the previous day, Dorian started out with a faint ember of hopeful optimism kindled in his chest. He wasn’t _really_ expecting to find anything worthwhile, but with no concrete proof of failure yet, he could still entertain the notion that today would be the day he found his way out of this damnable forest. After all, it couldn’t go on forever. He might not be an expert in the south, but he knew that it was more than mountains and forests. There was a whole country full of poncy Orlesians in expansive estates and sprawling chateaus out there somewhere; the ridiculous bastards couldn’t survive without a selection of masks and shoes for any eventuality, there was no way they were living like barbarians in the woods. 

After four hours of trees, trees, more trees, some trees, and _still more trees_ , Dorian was feeling less charitable about the success of the endeavor. _I’m going to die out here_ , he thought morosely, before vindictively smacking a rock into one of the aforementioned trees with the blade of his staff. _Starved to death, exposed to the cruelty of the elements, eaten by vicious bears, and no one will find my bones until the spring thaw melts all the snow. If this blasted place even_ has _a spring. I’m beginning to severely doubt that prospect._

Complaining to himself hadn’t eased his frustration or soothed his aching feet at all during the last hundred times he’d done it, but that didn’t discourage him from continuing the practice. It was either complain or explode from sheer aggravation. Thus far, exploding was still the least desirable of the two outcomes.

When he’d passed the five hour mark, or as close to it as he was able to determine from the sun’s position in the sky, Dorian called it quits and looked for somewhere suitable to take a break and have something to eat. He found a large stream with water so clear he could see every pebble on the bed beneath it. Scattered along the shore were a number of large rocks, one of which had a hunk broken off of it that made a low shelf just wide enough to sit on. Propping his staff against the side of it, Dorian slid out of his pack and took a seat. He was in the middle of rifling through it for the remains of a cheese wheel he was _sure_ was still in there when the back of his neck prickled with unease.

He hadn’t heard anything unusual. The brightly colored birds that populated this part of Thedas were still chirping in the trees around him, obviously at ease and unalarmed by the presence of predators. There had been no ominous cracks of twigs being snapped in two by heavily booted feet or wickedly clawed paws, like some of the novels Dorian had read had suggested was a common occurrence prior to being painfully killed by monsters or miscreants. As far as he knew, there had been nothing to warn him that all was no longer quite what it appeared, yet the hair was still rising on the back of his neck and his fingers were itching to grasp his staff. 

_Something_ was out there. He might not be proficient in woods-craft, but he was a trained battlemage and he trusted his instincts.

If it was some kind of slavering beast, no plan but summon his magic and fight like the blazes was going to work. But if it was a person—or persons, though he really didn’t want to have to try to fight off a group—he _might_ be able to gain a tiny advantage. And _any_ advantage, however small, could very well be the turning point in battle, should one break out. At the moment, whatever was heading his way didn’t know that he was aware that he was no longer alone and if he continued feigning obliviousness, it might make his would-be attacker sloppy. Dorian could use sloppy. He’d done it before in less dire circumstances in Tevinter. He could certainly do it now, when it could quite literally mean the difference between life and death. 

It was difficult to continue sorting through his pack as though he had not a care in the world, but Dorian did his best to look normal without overcompensating and looking _too_ careless. He was listening now, senses attuned to the world around him in a way that they hadn’t been before. The birds never did fall silent. But some bit of plant matter—a leaf, perhaps, or some rather thick stalk—crackled.

Dorian’s head snapped up at the same time his hand shot out to his staff, and as his fingers closed around the shaft, he counted at least ten men clad in what appeared to be furs and mud in a semi-circle around him. Two, he noticed, had bows. The others had swords and axes. No staffs, but an arrow in the chest or throat would be just as fatal as a well-thrown fireball or lightning bolt.

“Lower your weapon, lowlander,” one of the axe-wielders commanded, stepping forward. “You are surrounded.”

_What is it about hearing you’re surrounded that always makes you want to look_? Dorian wondered inanely, fighting the instinctive impulse to glance behind him. Pride, however, wouldn’t let him. A frightened man would cower and twist around, and Dorian was alarmed, but he would be damned if he was going to give these barbarians the satisfaction of seeing him look anything but in control.

And they were _actual_ barbarians, too. Perhaps this was what the Maker felt he deserved for all the casually disparaging remarks he’d had toward the more civilized Fereldans he’d encountered prior to this. At least, if Dorian had been the Maker, or any of the multitude of gods worshipped throughout the known world, he thought such a punishment would be suitably ironic.   

"I don't suppose you'd mind telling me _why_ I'm surrounded, would you?" Dorian called to the man he assumed was the leader, sounding as though being surrounded by a group of clearly hostile barbarians was at most a mild inconvenience. 

The leader didn't look suitably cowed, or impressed, by Dorian's question. "You will come with us." 

No. No, he bloody well would not go anywhere with these lunatics. Without releasing his hold on his staff, Dorian shook his head. "I'm really not inclined to visit today. Perhaps another time."

One of the archers lifted his bow, arrow knocked and, presumably, aimed directly at him. From where he was sitting, it certainly looked like it was aimed at him.

The group's spokesman shook his head once, the motion sharp and curt. "You do not have a choice."

Dorian knew that it wasn't a good idea to antagonize these people. They were obviously unbalanced; no sane person would wander around wearing dead animals and streaks of mud that were too deliberate and evenly applied to be the result of an unfortunate tumble into a puddle. They were filthy, probably crawling with fleas, and most likely deranged. But accompanying them anywhere was doubtlessly akin to volunteering himself for ritualistic slaughter or cannibalization and Dorian had no interest in partaking in either of those activities.

"So, what? If I refuse, you'll kill me?" He squinted at them, composing his expression into one of disapproval. "Sort of defeats the point of having me come with you, doesn't it?"

The barbarian smiled a wholly unpleasant smile, one of too many teeth, and thanks to his dark face paint or mud or whatever it was, the effect seemed exaggeratedly too wide. "You just need to be alive. You don't need to have all your bits." As an afterthought, he added, "Or be conscious."

That didn't bode well. He could take out a number of them, it was true, but probably not _all_ of them. Definitely not all of them if there were actually more behind him like the man had claimed. Eventually one would get a lucky strike in while he was distracted with the others. And his brain was only too happy to offer up a variety of gruesome, painful ways he might be taken back to their camp—or wherever it was that they wanted to go—in some form of incapacitation. It wasn't a pretty picture in a figurative sense and he didn’t want to experience it via that pretty picture’s literal cousin. 

By the same token, he wasn’t just going to oblige them and trot along like a good little prisoner. He wasn’t looking to get himself injured, but he wasn’t going to send the message that he’d roll over and take whatever they tried to do to him, either. If they _were_ intending to do something awful with him, he fully intended to make them pay for the privilege.

"Where do you want me to go?" If he could keep them talking, maybe he could figure out a way to diffuse this before it got ugly.

"That is not your concern." The leader scowled at him. "Put down your weapon."

"I'd really rather we talked about this before—" 

"Shoot him," the barbarian barked out to one of his fellows, ignoring him completely.

Cursing, Dorian threw up a barrier between himself and the archer who immediately let fly with an arrow. Tiny green sparks sizzled into the air as the arrow's tip struck the barrier, but it bounced off without penetration. Dorian was in the middle of glancing back toward the leader, about to try a different tack, when sharp pain blossomed through the base of his skull and sent him staggering forward. The suddenness of it caused him to release his staff, which fell uselessly to the ground, and before he could regain his footing, another barbarian stepped in beside him and clouted him in the side of the head.

The force of the blow dropped him to the ground, vision swimming and turning black around the edges. Hunching his shoulders in an attempt to protect his head from further trauma, Dorian lifted a shaking hand, trying to get another barrier—this time a better one that covered the entirety of his body—in place. But with the pounding of his head and the precarious grip he had on consciousness, the magic slipped away before he could get a proper hold on it.

A fur-trimmed boot stepped into his rapidly narrowing field of vision. It seemed a colossal effort, but Dorian forced himself to sluggishly raise his head. The axe-man was standing above him, smirking in a way that momentarily caused the pain to disappear in a flare of irritated anger.

The man clicked his tongue in disappointment. It didn’t sound genuine at all. "Should've come quietly," he said, shaking his head.

There was a retort for that. A truly scathing one. Dorian knew he had it in him, could feel it burning on the tip of his tongue even if he couldn't quite guess what the words would be. But before he could let it loose, the barbarian brought the haft of his axe down against his temple. The loud crack that accompanied it seemed to reverberate for an eternity through Dorian's head and as his awareness fled, it followed him down into the dark.

* * *

It was a slow, arduous climb back to consciousness. Once or twice he nearly made it, only to lose traction before he could get his eyes open and slide back under again. He heard brief snippets of conversations, caught collections of words that made no sense, but he always faded away before he could try to commit any of them to memory for later perusal. He barely registered movement, knowing in only the vaguest and most abstract of ways that he was being transported somewhere, though he never stayed awake long enough to discover how that was being done. 

By the time he was able to pry his eyes open, he was stationary. Where he happened to be was not immediately discernible. Everything was dark, and for a heart-stoppingly dreadful moment, Dorian thought his eyes had been damaged and he was blind. Before the panic could truly set in, he shifted backward and saw a flash of light glint off a length of metal he only then realized was attached to his wrist.

_Manacles,_ he thought blearily, as he rotated his wrist and felt the unyielding press of metal against his skin. The faint rattling clink of a chain filtered up through the darkness, startling in how foreign it was, and he shrank back away from it. His back hit cold, uneven stone and when the back of his head followed suit an instant later, the pain flared, his skin felt hot, and the overwhelming urge to retch nearly doubled him over.

Hunching into a ball of misery, Dorian gingerly pressed his palms against his forehead in an attempt to quell the pain. It didn't work. It just served to hasten his discovery of new hurts: namely, the entire side of his face, which felt like one giant bruise. Healing magic was not his forte, but during his time in the Circles, he'd prided himself on learning at least the rudimentary spells in every magical concentration. As a child, he'd wanted to learn _all_ the spells that existed, and more than that, he’d wanted to master them, but his talents lay very clearly in certain areas and he'd known that it was to his benefit to hone those to perfection, instead of wasting so much time trying to master everything that he ultimately mastered nothing. 

He didn't have the finesse to reconstruct a face that had been badly burned or scarred beyond recognition by blades, but he could diminish swelling and lessen pain a bit, even prompt his body to speed up the healing process. He could absolutely handle a bruise, even one that he couldn't see. And maybe the darkness was a blessing in disguise, at least where getting a glimpse of himself was concerned. Dorian didn't think he actually wanted to see the mess the barbarians had made of his face.

When he reached for it, the mana within him welled up in a lethargic trickle. Its lack of responsiveness suggested that he had not yet recovered enough to make this attempt, but he _hurt_ and until that was reduced to a more manageable level, he wasn't going to be at his sharpest when the barbarians came for him. He prodded at it like a sore tooth, drawing on the mana with steady insistence until he felt woozy. But persistence had paid off; he'd collected enough to weave together a lattice of healing energy beneath his hand.

Dorian winced when he pressed it against his face, but cool, numbing relief began to creep down from his temple to his jaw and the pain faded slowly away shortly afterward. It was slow going, he didn't want to get ahead of himself and lose his grip on the magic, or worse, expend too much too quickly and burn himself out before he was able to heal his injuries. And it was tiring. He really should have been resting, but the easing of his discomfort was encouragement to keep at it.

When he felt his mana start to gutter, Dorian released the magic and probed cautiously at his skin. It was still tender, suggesting that he hadn't erased the bruise completely, but when he opened his mouth his jaw didn't ache and the movement didn't aggravate his throbbing head. That too had diminished somewhat, though he knew that it wouldn't completely go away until he was able to tend to the back of his skull. 

_Still_ , he told himself, _one thing at a time_. Now that he could think clearly and turn his head without being overcome with nausea, he could start trying to figure out where he was, why he was there, and most importantly, how to get free.

First, he tested the manacles, feeling around at the metal encircling his wrists for a clasp he might attempt to pry open. Unfortunately, there was nothing there. The metal was smooth the whole way around. When he spread his arms, the chain pulled taunt before he'd managed to get even his body's width between them, effectively dashing the hope that he had any room to maneuver.

It was as he was moving around testing his bonds that he discovered that not only were his ankles shackled as well, but his boots were gone too. It seemed like such a minor thing when he was injured, bound, and shut away in the dark Maker only knew where, but with the realization that his boots were gone came an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability he hadn't previously felt. And if there was one thing Dorian absolutely despised, it was feeling vulnerable. But there it was, an oddly pervasive fear that even if he escaped, he wouldn't be able to go far like this. Not in an inhospitable climate in the middle of the mountains; getting away from the barbarians would do him no favors if afterward he lost his feet in the snow.

_Think, Pavus._ Think. _This isn't the worst situation you've ever been in_ , Dorian told himself, forcing in one deep, slow breath after another in an effort to calm down the sudden rapid beating of his heart. _It's not the best, but it isn't the worst. You need to stay calm, wait for the opportune moment, then use your magic and run. And if you kill someone in the chaos, steal his boots. You can bathe the fleas away later._

The pep talk helped. Not completely, but it allowed him to get his thoughts in order, anyway, and start going through his repertoire of spells. Some were better for large crowds than others. And most people had a healthy fear of fire; surely these barbarians wouldn't be any different. If he could set a structure alight, hopefully more than one, and then cast a spell to send them all into a panic, maybe—

A loud metallic click echoed through the room, startling Dorian out of his tentative plotting, and as his head turned toward the sound, a rectangle of light appeared in the middle of the blackness. Wincing, he narrowed his eyes, trying to will them to adjust faster to the light so that he could make out more than just a large dark blob in the middle of it. Footsteps filled the room as the blob split into three and approached. By the time one of them was reaching for Dorian's arm, his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see that the blobs were, unsurprisingly, barbarians.

"Get up," the one reaching for him commanded. Before he had time to comply, provided that he'd wanted to, the man grabbed him by the forearm and hauled him to his feet.

Because the light was behind him, it was impossible to get a good look at the man's face. But it really didn't matter. With all the warpaint and furs and mud, they looked the same to Dorian anyway. He just wished he knew whether it was the same group, evidently bigger than the ten he'd seen before he was knocked unconscious but likely no more than twenty, or a larger one. Either way, he was outnumbered and he knew it, he simply didn't want to have to fight his way through an entire army of the bastards to get away. 

The man didn't give him time to center himself on his feet or get used to the chill of the stone against his bare skin. Once he'd gotten him up, he started walking, tugging Dorian along beside him. Not wanting to appear weak, Dorian tried to keep a dignified pace with him—straight spine, head up, and shoulders back—but the chain binding his ankles was no more forgiving than the one attached to his wrists. Too short to permit him to walk with a normal gait, Dorian stumbled and nearly fell, much to the jeering amusement of the man's friends. 

"Where are you taking me?" he demanded, once they'd left the little room he'd been locked inside and were out in what looked like a tunnel in a cave. 

"No talking," another, yet vaguely familiar, voice snapped behind him.

Glancing over his shoulder and trying not to blink too much in the stronger light, Dorian found himself looking at the man he'd pegged as the leader of the barbarians who'd captured him. It wasn't the man's face that gave away his identity, or the faint recognition he felt at the sound of his voice, but the axe that was hanging innocuously on his belt. _That_ blighted thing, Dorian would recognize anywhere. His head throbbed just to see it.

Refusing to let himself be intimidated by someone who seemed more animal than man, Dorian scowled. "I am—"

With one step, the man was in his face, sneering at him. "You want to be gagged, lowlander, keep talking." In his hand, which he raised threateningly in Dorian’s direction, was a strip of stained, off-white cloth. 

Dorian grimaced. There was no way he was letting him put that filthy thing in his mouth. They might be diseased, but he would bite the fingers off of anyone who tried before he'd allow himself to be subjected to such indignity.

"Didn't think so." The barbarian's voice was as smugly haughty as his smirk. He waved a hand at the man who still had a grip on Dorian's arm. "Let's go." 

The man with the axe took point, the others falling in behind Dorian and his escort, and like that, they marched him, still stumbling every couple of steps, down the tunnel and out of the cave into the chill air of what appeared to be a barbarian village. Or as close as they seemed capable of coming to constructing such a settlement. It certainly didn't look like any village Dorian had ever seen. 

It was tucked in against the side of a mountain. Wooden huts that looked as though they'd collapse in a strong breeze huddled together on rocky outcroppings, some reachable only by flimsy looking ladders and bridges made of rope and wooden slats. The tips of thatched roofs poked up from below when Dorian glanced over the edge of the path he was dragged along, suggesting more buildings below. The sound of voices filtered through the air from all sides, including above and below, putting out of its misery the rapidly dwindling hope that escape was still possible. 

From the look of things, he had emerged right into the middle of a larger collection of these mountain people than he thought existed. There was no chance he could survive a battle with all of them. 

As much as he'd disliked walking bare-foot through the cavern tunnel, he quickly found that he preferred that to the uneven path of cold dirt and icy rocks that bit into the bottoms of his feet. It hurt, it made walking even more difficult, and it was cold. _Everything_ here was cold: the air, the ground, the people. Dorian felt like he was freezing, but his dignity forbade huddling into his robes for whatever meager warmth they offered in front of these people. 

They ran around barely dressed and none of them appeared to notice the cold, much less mind it or find it uncomfortable. Despite his clear disadvantage and the reality of being marched through the center of their settlement in chains, Dorian refused to let them see that what didn't affect them made him miserable. They could take everything else away from him, but they would not take his pride. He wouldn't let them, no matter how uncomfortable he eventually became. 

Not wanting to give the impression that he was afraid, Dorian kept his glances around the settlement surreptitious. In his periphery, he could see other barbarians stopping whatever they were doing to watch as their pathetic little procession passed. He wasn't always able to make out the words of the comments they traded with one another, but he could read the tone and that told him all he needed to know. They were amused, somewhat curious, and secure in their position of power. No one whispered or shrank away from him, their stares were frank and their voices held at a conversational level. It made his skin crawl to be on display like this, but knowing it would be more mortifying to be paraded around like this gagged, he kept his silence and focused his ire on ensuring that he stumbled as little as possible.

After what felt like an age, they came to the mouth of another cave. It was flanked by torches that were lit despite it being in the middle of the day. Without pause, he was led inside. Expecting another cell, or truthfully, some blood soaked torture chamber, Dorian was surprised to see that the short tunnel turned a corner and then opened into a wide chamber with a high ceiling. There were thick furs strewn across the worn stone floor, not quite carpeting the entirety of it but coming close. More torches burned at the edges of the room, along with a hearth with a large roaring fire, but no smoke hung in the air above them. Somehow, the chamber was ventilated, though Dorian doubted these savages had the architectural knowledge to design such a place.

_No doubt they happened on it by accident and decided to settle here because of it_ , he thought derisively, turning his attention toward what appeared to be their destination. Had his guard’s hand not been like an iron vise around his arm, he might have stopped dead in the middle of the chamber. As it was, he almost tripped, and thanks to the shackles around his ankles, he had something very blatant to blame for his clumsiness.

At the far side of the chamber was what was obviously meant to be a throne. It was a great rock and wood monstrosity, topped with what looked to be antlers and the skull of some carnivorous beast. Sprawled out on the unnecessarily wide, fur-covered seat was a man wholly unlike the barbarians surrounding Dorian. Where they were so covered in warpaint that it was even swirled over their clothes, this man looked to be completely bare of it. There was a complicated black design circling his left bicep and creeping up his shoulder, but as they got closer Dorian realized that it wasn’t paint at all, it was a meticulously crafted tattoo. Of what, he couldn’t be certain; the man was too far away to see it clearly and he wasn’t sitting in a position that allowed Dorian to see as much of it as he would need to in order to identify it. 

The rest of him was all pale skin, curly blond hair, and well-defined muscle, easily viewed due to how little the man was actually wearing. Tall boots that reached to his knees, wrapped in layers of leather and fur lashed into place with thongs of corded leather. Something that looked suspiciously like a large fur-trimmed loincloth covered his lap and hung down between his casually spread legs. There was a strange vest-like garment with a large fur collar that covered his shoulders, but left his chest bare.

Far be it from Dorian to object to a handsome man—barbarian though he was, there was no denying that he was easy on the eyes—wearing next to nothing, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how someone who lived in such a harshly unforgiving, brutally _cold_ place could wear so little and not be freezing. _He_ was cold and he had trousers on, along with an actual shirt and a robe that went over top of it all. It wasn’t like the heat given off from the fires in the chamber was so great that it necessitated going about in one’s smallclothes, either. And it wasn’t just the man on the throne. His state of undress was simply more readily apparent, given the lack of distracting mud and paint. 

“We’ve brought the lowlander,” the bastard with the axe was saying.

Rather unnecessarily, too, in Dorian’s opinion. It was clear that they’d brought in someone who wasn’t one of them, what with the chains and the fact that he was standing in the middle of a group of people who appeared as though they’d been wallowing in a pigsty for the better part of a year, quite noticeably looking like he was intimately acquainted with the mystical concept of bathing. 

“So I see.”

Those three words cut through Dorian’s internal derisive commentary and drew his attention back to the man on the throne. Men shouldn’t sound that artlessly seductive outside the bedroom, but this man’s voice was a low, velvety purr that was equal parts confidence and amusement. Whoever he was, he was in control here and wasn’t displaying the slightest bit of self-consciousness.

Eyes the color of amber in sunlight focused on Dorian, who felt the oddest thrill as he met them with what he hoped was a look of bland indifference. Attractive though the man was, he was dangerous and likely meant to do Dorian harm, if the actions of his fellows were anything on which to base his assumptions. He was no naive boy, to believe that a pretty face was incapable of masking ruthless cruelty, and he wasn’t about to show anything to this man. Not appreciation and most certainly not fear. 

After a moment of silence, the man rose to his feet with incidental grace. He was tall, possibly even a few inches taller than Dorian, though admittedly that might have had something to do with the boots, and even more handsome when the full breadth of his shoulders was no longer overshadowed by that eyesore of a throne. 

He waved a casual, dismissive hand toward his men. “Leave us.” 

No one was expecting that. All around Dorian, the barbarians glanced at each other and none of them made to follow the order. By some silent conversation, they must have nominated the axe-wielder to speak for them, because he cleared his throat and edged forward half a step. 

“He is a mage.” If it was meant to be subtle that he was attempting to diplomatically tell the blond man that his suggestion was a bad idea, a glance toward his expression said louder than words possibly could that it wasn’t working. “It might be better if—” 

“Colbin,” the man said with deceptive neutrality. “Leave us.” 

A quiet, reluctant shuffle took place in the ring of men around him, but with a deferential nod, the axe-wielder withdrew and took the others with him. Dorian didn't turn to mark their exit, but he listened intently as the sound of their footfalls grew progressively softer until he couldn't hear them at all. Through it all, the blond man continued to study him, as if they were the only two people left in the world. It was an assessing kind of scrutiny and Dorian felt the passage of his gaze like a brand as it swept over his face, down the length of his body, and then leisurely back up to settle on his face. More specifically, he realized that the man was looking at the bruise that he knew was still visible on his skin. 

"Did you sustain further injuries?" 

It wasn't the question Dorian was expecting. As far as interrogations were concerned, it was a little too focused on his well-being to lead to whatever it was the man wanted from him.

Affecting a demeanor of haughty disdain, Dorian snorted. "Your friend was a bit enthusiastic with that axe of his, but he kept the beating above the shoulders." 

The man's eyes narrowed, though whether it was Dorian's tone or his answer that displeased him was impossible to say. Either way, he didn't reply, just resumed staring at Dorian for a moment before walking a slow, stalking circle around him.

Refusing to appear unnerved by the predatory movement, Dorian kept his eyes resolutely focused on the throne in front of him. It really was terribly garish, like it had been made by someone who had only heard about the concept of thrones in passing and had thought, much like Orlesians, that if he loaded it down with ostentatious ornamentation, it would be impressive and regal. But at least Orlesian trappings of power were worth something, made of gold and plastered with jewels as they so often were. This was just a mess and was probably valuable only to starving carrion birds. 

The blond man—King? Emperor? What did these people call their leaders?—stepped back into his line of sight. There was an amused half-smirk quirking up the side of his mouth, and in addition to being irritating, it drew Dorian's attention to the scar that distorted the symmetry of his upper lip. It was thin and straight, suggesting that it had been made by a blade of some sort, and from the placement of it, just beneath the swell of his cheek on down through his lip, it likely hurt a lot.

Idle curiosity made him wonder what the story was behind it. Common sense told him that it didn't matter and if he wanted to survive this, he needed to stop trying to humanize the man. He was the enemy, whether he was attractive or not.

"Would you try to escape if I released you?"

A wise man would hasten to assure him that no, definitely not, he wouldn't try to escape even as he was planning to do just that. Dorian, being brilliant but unfortunately not often as wise as he should have been, sarcastically retorted instead, "Would you enjoy being set on fire?"

In the books he'd read, the hapless hero would have just earned himself another beating right about now. In reality, the man tossed back his head and laughed. That it was a low, pleasant-sounding laugh was completely and utterly irrelevant to everything and Dorian most certainly did not notice it at all. 

Without addressing his cheek, the man reached into a small leather pouch attached to the wide belt that was keeping his loincloth— _Honestly, who dresses like this unironically?_ Dorian found himself thinking as the movement drew his eyes—in place. From it, he withdrew a small green stone. Stepping closer, he touched it to one of the cuffs encircling Dorian's wrist. As if it was on an invisible hinge, the metal parted. The other did the same without having to feel the touch of the stone, and the whole set of shackles fell off of him. They hit the floor of the cave at his feet with a rather loud clank. 

Pride compelled him to match the man's composure. Although it was a viciously fought battle, Dorian managed to prevent himself from flinching at the noise. It was effort well expended. The other man didn't so much as blink in acknowledgement of it. 

"So," Dorian started casually, making a show of rubbing at his wrists as he was watched expectantly. "I should assume that you enjoy being set on fire, then?"

The question won him another chuckle, this one dark and gravelly. The man's mouth twisted into an expression that flirted pretty heavily with smirk. "Perhaps it's the excitement I enjoy." 

Dorian's mouth felt uncomfortably dry. No small wonder, really, since he couldn't remember the last time he'd had something to drink. It had been at the start of this bizarre day, most likely. It was only a lifetime of being an outrageous flirt that allowed him to respond to that comment with a silky smooth, "I suppose that means I shall have to be exciting." 

He wasn't flirting with the man who'd had him captured. He wasn't. He was _bantering_ , because the alternative to banter was to start screaming defiance while he rained fire down on these unhygienic people.

And surely the barbarian king knew that, even if all he did was finally commit to the smirk. "I look forward to it."

_Right_ , Dorian thought brusquely. _Well, that's quite enough of that._ Clearing his throat, he folded his arms across his chest and arched an eyebrow. "Are you going to open the rest of these chains or am I going to have to hobble around here for the remainder of the day?"

With some unease, he noticed a knowing glint in the man's eyes. And that was preposterous, of course. Unless he was a blood mage, he couldn't know the unproductive and downright insane trajectory of Dorian's thoughts or the mental maneuvering he was doing to get himself back on task.

He was startled, though he didn't show it, when the man pressed the rock into his hand. From the brief contact, the inappropriate part of Dorian's brain noted that the man's hand was so warm it felt hot against his chilled skin. Looking down at the stone, he turned it over on his palm, growing more curious as he felt the thin resonance of magic emanating from it.

"This is enchanted," he said before he could stop himself, looking up at the man in surprise. "Your peoples' work?"

It was the sort of question that would probably put him on the fast track to being painfully corrected about who was asking the questions and who was answering them around here. Except, again, the man surprised him.

"No," he replied easily, without even a hint of _remember your place, wretch_ in his tone. "One of the clan's traders acquired it from one the Chasind, who swore it was a gift from the Mother of Vengeance."

Dorian had no idea who the Mother of Vengeance was, but she didn't sound as if she was brimming with goodwill toward men. Getting out of a contraption made by someone with such a moniker seemed like a good decision, so he crouched down, albeit a bit warily, and touched the stone to one of the bands around his ankle like the man had done to his wrist. Just as before, the metal parted easily and the shackles dropped to the ground.

Rising to his feet, Dorian stepped away from the chains and after a slight hesitation, offered the stone back to the man. He took it, then gestured for Dorian to follow him. Curious and still nonplussed by his behavior, he did was he was bid. They didn't go far, just a few feet closer to the hearth. It wasn't any warmer there than where they'd been standing, which served to make the man even more confusing than he already was. 

When understanding finally dawned, a distressingly large number of seconds after Dorian had burrowed his cold toes into the thick pelt of some beast, he felt like an idiot. And more confounded than ever over the barbarian's actions. He was far more considerate than his fellows, which didn't make a lick of sense. Wasn't Dorian his prisoner? Was he playing at being kind so that Dorian was more agreeable to answering whatever questions he had or doing whatever task he'd been captured to perform? He didn't know, and his lack of knowledge was frustrating him almost to the point of distraction.

This small bit of inexplicable kindness was the last straw. 

"What do you want from me?" Dorian demanded as the frustration boiled over. "Why am I here?"

Choosing to forgo the customary courtesy of answering a question before asking his own, the man blatantly ignored him. "What is your name?"

Dorian frowned, before snapping back, "What's yours?"

He didn't exactly care, per se, but he wasn't going to make this easy for the big brute. If he wanted answers, he was going to have to start practicing reciprocation. Otherwise, Dorian was quite capable of answering every question put to him with one of his own.

It was a good plan. Perfectly passive aggressive and frustrating. And it was blown to the Void when the man said evenly, "Cullen Wolf-Bane."

_How appropriately uncivilized_ , Dorian thought disparagingly. It was better than recognizing that the man— _Cullen_ , apparently—was being remarkably forthcoming with information for being the one with the authority. Perhaps it cost him nothing to answer Dorian's questions. Perhaps he was only going to have him killed after their little chat and it didn't matter how much he divulged.

"What does that mean?" He decided to do what he did best and push. No one was as much of a nuisance as Dorian when he put his mind toward being a terror. "You kill a lot of wolves? Is that your job here?" 

That sparkle of amusement was back in Cullen's eyes. "I am thane to Red-Lion Hold."

Thane? That meant... Dorian wracked his brain to remember what, if anything, he knew about the barbarian tribes of Ferelden. It wasn't much. Ferelden was like that embarrassing uncle that always made an unfortunate spectacle of himself and any innocent bystanders who didn't know to get away from him at parties. One learned enough to know the right time to practice avoidance and when a conveniently offered glass of wine could extricate oneself from the coming awkwardness.

It was a title of leadership, that much he knew, and from the way Cullen specified Red-Lion Hold, that led him to believe that he wasn't the leader of _all_ the barbarians in the south. Just this group of them, which was apparently called Red-Lion Hold. Why _that_ was, he wasn't able to determine. On his walk through the settlement, he hadn't seen one lion, red or otherwise. And while admittedly he wasn't a nature expert by any stretch of the imagination, he felt confident in his doubt that any of these pelts belonged to lions either. They were too thick and shaggy for that. 

"Then you're the man I need to see about all of this." Dorian gestured toward their surroundings with a wave of his hand and made a point to keep his voice light and casual. As if everything that had happened to him had been a misunderstanding and now that he'd found the proper authority, it could be cleared up in a matter of minutes. 

"You've yet to tell me what to call you," Cullen reminded him mildly. 

That was true. Did he dare? Did it matter? It was a long way from Tevinter. There was no possible way that his father had hired wild Fereldan dogs to cart him back home. 

"Dorian," he answered finally, coming down in favor of cooperation. For the moment. "Of House Pavus."

Cullen dipped his chin in acknowledgement. "I wasn't aware that lowlanders named their homes."

_What?_ Dorian squinted at him, trying to parse that. "When you say lowlander, do you mean—What _do_ you mean?"

To his credit, Cullen actually paused to consider the question. It boded well for getting an actual answer. "Lowlanders are not of the Avvar. They live below, away from the mountains on land that is flat and tame." 

When he put it like that, there was only one thing he could possibly mean. Dorian reared back, straightening his spine and glaring down his nose at the man. "Fereldan?" He made no attempt to conceal either his shock or his contempt. "You think I'm _Fereldan_?" 

Cullen's brow furrowed with confusion. "Are you not?"

Dorian huffed as though mortally offended. He wasn't. But it wasn't entirely an act, either. "No, I most certainly am _not_."

The thane seemed to accept that equanimity. "Where do you come from?"

"Tevinter." Perhaps he said it with a touch too much vehemence, but the only thing worse than being mistaken for a doglord was being mistaken for an Orlesian. That was an insult from which there was simply no return. "Minrathous, if you'd like to put a finer point on it."

"That is..." Again creases marred the smoothness of Cullen's forehead. "I have never been to Tevinter. Is it not far from here?"

It occurred to Dorian then that despite being the leader of his clan or hold or whatever, Cullen wasn't concerned about appearing as if he knew everything. He asked questions, he sought clarification, and when he was wrong, he didn't try to cover it with excuses or hostility. In other words, he wasn't anything like the magisters with whom Dorian was familiar. It would have been a refreshing change, were it not for the fact that he wasn't there of his own volition.

"Quite far," Dorian agreed. "To the north. Across the Waking Sea." Which brought them back to the matter of naming houses. Perhaps it was because Cullen wasn't anything like what he'd been expecting, but Dorian found himself feeling uncommonly charitable. "And in Tevinter, noble families introduce themselves with the name of their house. It establishes our rank, you see, and that's terribly important in Tevinter."

"You're Tevinter nobility?"

After he asked the question, Dorian realized that he'd made a slight miscalculation in being so helpfully informative. Regardless of which country one hailed from, certain things held true across the board. With the exception of singular personal misfortunes, nobility on the whole being wealthy was one of those truths. And Dorian's family did have money. Quite a lot of it, in point of fact. Whether his father would pay a ransom for his return was another matter, but it was doubtful that a southern barbarian would understand the nuances of the Pavus family's dysfunction.

"After a fashion," Dorian tried to backpedal without it being obvious that that was what he was doing. "It's rather complicated, actually. In the interest of not boring you half to death when we've only just met, it's probably best that I not get carried away with the details."

Cullen wasn't looking at him like he'd stumbled upon an unexpected gold mine or like he was trying to suss out how much money he could wrangle from his family. He looked interested, but unless he was an exceptional actor, it was a guileless sort of interest. The kind a man might evince when coming into contact with something foreign and strange for the first time. But that didn't mean anything. Dorian had learned _quite well_ that just because a man acted a certain way wasn't grounds to trust that it was genuine.

He didn't want to be killed by these people. But he certainly didn't want to be shipped off to Tevinter either. For now, it was safer to hedge his bets.

"How have you come to be here if your homeland is so far away?" It was a curious question, not a demand.

"I should think it obvious," Dorian said shortly, losing patience all over again with this song and dance. "Your thugs attacked me, and when I was rendered unconscious, they brought me here."

Something hard and unpleasant flashed in Cullen's eyes. His voice was subtly tighter than it had been a moment ago, when he started, "That wasn't—"

Dorian waved the reprimand away and cut him off. "Yes, yes. Not what you meant. I know." Cullen looked like he wanted to interject, but he kept talking, not wanting to give him an opening to get a word in. "If I answer your question, will you answer one of mine?"

He wasn't in the position to bargain anything and they both knew it, but it was an illusion of control if he could get it, and sometimes even something that miniscule was enough to change the direction of these sorts of situations. At least it worked that way in Tevinter.

Despite looking displeased a moment ago, Cullen didn't hesitate to agree. "Of course."

They weren't in Tevinter and this wasn't a magister. Dorian really needed to stop expecting him to act like one. Yet he had no other frame of reference for how those in power behaved.

"Why am I here?" he blurted out, hating that it would make him seem scared and weak, but whatever game Cullen was playing, it was too incomprehensible to work out when he was still in pain and his nerves had frayed almost beyond repair. "What do you plan to do with me?"

Cullen arched an eyebrow. "Two."

That was so apropos to nothing that Dorian stared at him, unsure if he'd heard him correctly. "I beg your pardon?"

Patiently, Cullen said, "That is two questions, not one."

A frustrated hiss slipped out of his mouth. "So ask me another," he snapped. "Just tell me—"

"You're afraid," Cullen spoke over him, quietly and with a surprising lack of smug superiority or pleasure. "You think I mean you harm."

It was too close to the truth for comfort. Dorian frowned. "That's not entirely—"

Once again, he wasn't given the opportunity to finish the statement. "You are in no danger from me, Dorian Pavus. I won't harm you."

He wanted to believe it. He was also well versed in the game of semantics and knew that _Cullen_ could refrain from hurting him, thus keeping his word, while still having other members of his hold get their hands dirty on his behalf. It wasn't the reassurance Cullen was trying to make it be.

"Then why did your people capture me?" he persisted, pointing to the side of his face. "Because they obviously don't share your sentiment."

There was that anger again, stronger now, and part of Dorian braced to be struck. But Cullen never lifted his hand to him. The anger faded as he looked at him, replaced by a quiet pensiveness.

"There is war among the lowlanders," he began after a short pause. "Why it has begun is not clear, we are too far from it to receive accurate reports, though rumor has reached us that many of their warriors and mages fight against one another. Three days ago, my scouts found your camp. They watched you—" Dorian felt the hair at the back of his neck rise. He'd had no idea he was being watched. "—but could not determine the reason for your presence here. I asked them to bring you to me so that I could speak with you directly."

That was understandable. Reasonable, from a certain angle. But Dorian had been abducted, beaten, and relieved of what few possessions were left to his name. He wasn't in the mood to be reasonable. Especially when this barbarian made him feel so distinctly _un_ reasonable. 

"And you couldn't come talk to me yourself?" he demanded harshly. "Does being thane make you too important to get your hands dirty?"

Cullen's mouth opened, then closed with an audible _click_. "I never ordered them to harm you," he said tightly.

"Did you order them not to?" Dorian laughed humorlessly. "Because if you did, I'm afraid your people don't listen to you as well as you clearly think they do."

"I—"

Shaking his head, Dorian stepped forward and jabbed a finger into Cullen's chest. He meant it to hurt, but the man had so much muscle that all he succeeded in doing was jamming his finger. The low flare of pain was all it took to push him over the edge into true anger.

"I don't want to hear it," he snarled, refusing to give the bastard the satisfaction of watching him uncomfortably shake his hand. "I'm cold, I'm tired, I _hurt_ , and I've lost all of my belongings. Because of _you_. So either let me go or kill me, because my business is my own and I won't be answering a damn thing."

Perhaps he went too far. Cullen straightened, his eyes narrowing with what appeared to be anger. Dorian barely had any mana to speak of, but what he could grasp coiled through him, hot and raw. It would hurt to summon the amount of fire he wanted, but if Cullen so much as twitched in his direction, Dorian was going to burn him to ash before he laid a hand on him. 

"If you wish to leave, I'll not stop you," Cullen began slowly, painfully obvious about the fact that he was grasping at patience with only minimal success.

Dorian snorted, not truly believing it, and turned to march out of the cave right then. There were no hurried footsteps after him as he stepped off of the fur rug onto the cold stone of the cave's floor. His mouth thinned in distaste, though he wouldn't let such a thing stop him. He wanted out, and even though there were probably guards lurking outside to apprehend him, he intended for the gravity of that desire to be unquestionable.

He was a few feet from the mouth of the short tunnel out of the cave when he heard Cullen call from behind him, "But you could at least wait until morning."

_Here it is. The springing of the trap._ Everything in him screamed to keep walking, to flat out _run_ until he was caught. But of course, contrary as he was, Dorian ignored common sense and stopped, turning his head to the side yet not quite looking behind him. "Or what?"

From the corner of his eye, he saw Cullen's silhouette in the firelight shrug. "The mountains are dangerous, more so in the dark. Take a meal, let one of our mages tend to your injuries, collect your things and rest, and in the morning take your leave with provisions enough to see you through your journey."

That sounded far too good to be true. "Just like that?"

Cullen had the audacity to sound offended when he stiffly responded, "I told you that I will not hold you against your will."

Even though he knew better, there was an exhausted part of Dorian that wanted to accept the offer. And he knew that the longer he remained, the larger that part would grow. "And your thugs?" 

Not even a token attempt was made to conceal Cullen's heavy sigh. "None will harm you. If you would prefer not to deal with any of my clan, I will tend to your needs myself this night."

"Isn't that sort of menial labor beneath a thane?" Dorian stopped himself just shy of continuing on and saying something truly insulting.

"I ask nothing of my people that I would not do myself," was Cullen's even reply.

_Go_ , Dorian told himself firmly. _Just go. Take your chances with the wilderness. If you stay here like a fool, they'll never let you leave._ Silently, he stared blankly at the wall beside him. There were no answers to be found in the rock, and after a significant pause, Dorian decided to take a gamble. "Fine. Show me to my lodging for the night, then."

It was a stupid decision, really. Dorian had always been a terrible gambler and by now, he should have known better.

* * *

True to his word, Cullen escorted him to an empty hut tucked in against the rock of the mountain. It was made of wooden slats nailed together and the roof was thatch and twigs and Maker only knew what woven together. Dorian had taken one look at it and scoffed, certain that he was going to spend his night fighting off vermin and trying not to freeze to death. But when they'd walked inside, the place had been clean, if sparsely furnished, with thick fur rugs scattered across the floor and piled on the bed. Cullen had gone immediately to the hearth and started a fire that was soon roaring and suffusing the entire dwelling with heat. He said nothing to Dorian's disparaging comments, just informed him that he'd return shortly and made his exit.

Which left Dorian sitting half buried in the furs on the bed, watching the fire and trying to do a little more self-healing while he waited for Cullen to return. He still wasn't convinced that this wasn't all an elaborate ruse to make him complacent, but he wasn't sure how to deal with it if it was, save to pretend to go along with it and not let his guard down. He wasn't dead yet, and so far, that was the most important thing.

What he wanted to do was get up and test the door, see if he was locked in, but he didn't know when Cullen was returning and he didn't want him to catch him in the act. If this was a trap, and he was thought suitably discouraged from making an escape attempt, then perhaps security around the hut would be lax and he could get away in the night. That was the plan, at any rate, and it would be aided by a little rest and a decent meal. _If_ Cullen was going to make good on that promise and not use the food as an opportunity to drug him.

Just the thought of it sent a cold shiver down his spine, made substantially worse because he hadn't thought about the possibility of such a thing before he'd started flagrantly using his magic. Cursing himself for being a short-sighted idiot, he laid off the healing for the moment, hoping that by the time the food arrived, he'd have enough magic at his disposal to check it for toxins. 

A quiet rap against the door startled him out of his increasingly alarmed musings. There was a pause after the knock, a handful of pounding heartbeats Dorian would never admit to feeling, and then the door opened to admit Cullen. And only Cullen, who half turned to close it before coming closer. In the light of the fire, Dorian could see a pack slung over his shoulder that looked suspiciously like his own. There was another, smaller and a bit furrier, hanging off the other shoulder. In one hand was held something Dorian could never mistake: his staff. In the other hung his boots.

"I've brought your belongings," Cullen announced before he reached the bed. There was a note of _something_ in that last word, so faint that if Dorian hadn't been so intently focused on him, waiting for the proverbial other boot to drop, he probably would have missed it.

Instead of asking after it, he pointed to the furry pack. "That isn't mine." 

"No," Cullen agreed, unperturbed by his argumentativeness. "It isn't."

He handed him the staff first, exhibiting absolutely none of the caution a sensible man arming a captive mage would demonstrate. As Dorian's hand closed around it, he felt the enchantment within it strengthening his mana and relieving some of his weariness. He _could_ blast him with a fireball now and a small part of him was tempted, if for no other reason than that it would be nothing less than he deserved for being so careless. He didn't do it, however, and was unwittingly rewarded for his restraint when Cullen set his boots near the bed, shrugged off his pack, and passed it over.

Leaning the staff against the bed, well within easy reach if things went further south than they already were, Dorian accepted it and drew it into his lap. His fingers itched to open it and rifle through the contents, to make sure none of the books had been harmed or his sole change of clothes ruined. With Cullen standing there watching him, it seemed so much like an expression of weakness that he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Oblivious to his internal struggle, Cullen opened the other pack and withdrew a glass bottle filled with something green that looked incredibly unappetizing. "The augur sent this healing tonic for your injuries," he explained, offering the bottle that Dorian reluctantly took. "And this."

The second bottle he pulled from the pack was much smaller and contained a glowing blue liquid. Composure faltering, Dorian’s unimpressed mask slipped as his eyebrows rose. "Is that lyrium?"

Barbarians had lyrium? Dorian wasn't sure how he felt about that revelation. If they traded with dwarves, it was understandable how they got their hands on it. But what did they use it for? Communing with demons? Working strange, horrific magic? His imagination was threatening to get away from him and it was doing him no favors.

"Aye," Cullen answered, placing it into his outstretched hand. "I'm told that it will help restore your magic."

Dorian closed his fingers around the cool bottle, though he didn't open it and drink. Instead, he laid his hand down on his lap and turned his eyes back to Cullen, who evidently wasn't finished giving him things.

"I don't know what you prefer, so..." Opening the flap so that Dorian had a clear view of the remaining contents, Cullen set the pack down beside him.

In it, he could see something that looked like a waterskin, a dark bottle of something he hardly dared to hope was wine, half a wheel of cheese, half a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth, and another bundle of dried meat of some sort. It was enough food for two people; Dorian had to wonder if Cullen thought he was ravenous, normally ate this much himself, or was trying to tell him something. Doubting a barbarian could be that subtle, Dorian could only assume he ate like a beast and assumed everyone else did as well.

"Is there anything else you need?"

_To get out of here_. "No."

"If—"

Tired of listening to the man play at being some kind of host, Dorian cut him off. "That will be all." He waved him away with all the arrogance a magister would show a slave, haughty, bordering on disdain, and fully insulting.

But Cullen didn't rise to the bait. _Probably doesn't even recognize it_ , Dorian thought uncharitably, knowing his behavior was crossing the line between understandably affronted at his capture and just plain bratty and not caring in the slightest. After a long, assessing look, Cullen nodded once and left the hut without another word.

Not wanting him to change his mind and return to find Dorian stuffing food into his mouth like an uncouth heathen, he waited for a few minutes, listening to the faint sounds that filtered in through the hut's thin walls. Footsteps walked past, but they kept going and didn't return. A few people called to one another, though none mentioned him even obliquely.

Perhaps he truly was going to be left alone for the night.

Dorian did eat then, slowly despite the gnawing hunger twisting his stomach into knots. A few small hunks of bread, a moderate sized piece of the cheese, even a few strips of the meat he had no way of identifying. He took a few sips of the water to soothe his parched throat, then decided to keep the rest for his travels. It turned out that the bottle _did_ contain wine, of a surprisingly decent vintage considering the people who'd given it to him, and he drank a copious amount of that. It wasn't enough to get properly drunk, only just enough to take the edge off and numb his tongue so that he could swallow the foul-tasting healing potion. The lyrium he wrapped in his spare shirt and tucked it carefully into the bottom of his pack. It wasn't necessary that he use it now and it might be the difference between life and death later.

Nothing, he was delighted to discover, had been stolen or damaged, and after he'd inventoried his things and repacked them all once more, Dorian lay down in the furs, staff leaning against the wall in arm's reach, and tried to relax. He doubted that he would be able to get more than a few minutes' scattered sleep throughout the night, but he was exhausted enough that he felt it worth making the attempt.

His head had barely touched the pillow and he'd just gotten himself suitably wrapped in the furs when his eyes, heavy and slightly burning, closed. _A blink, nothing more_ , he thought. And immediately drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When he was startled out of his sleep an indeterminate time later, Dorian spent a few endless seconds lying in the bed, heart pounding and breathing fast, unsure of what woke him or where he was. The fire had dwindled to a faint glow while he'd slept, offering just enough light to allow him to see the inside of the hut. _Barbarians_ , he told himself after a moment fraught with increasing panic. _I was captured by barbarians. Their leader keeps telling me that I'm safe for the night, so I can go back to sleep and_ —

A shout from outside the hut interrupted the thought, drawing Dorian's attention to what his sleep-fogged brain had acknowledged while unconscious and promptly forgot during the alarm of waking in an unfamiliar place. There was shouting, quite a lot of it, and the unmistakable ring of metal meeting metal.

Fighting. It was the sound of fighting.

_Not quite so safe after all,_ he thought, struggling to get free of the tangle of furs and out of the bed. He'd gone to sleep with his clothes on, so he didn't have to waste time dressing for the elements. He shoved his feet into his boots, grabbed his staff, and moved to the door, leaving the pack on the bed. Much as he didn't want to leave without it, he wasn't willing to risk his life for it either. Better to deal with the immediate threat unhindered by the weight of it. Maker willing, he would return for it after he'd handled whatever was going on outside.

Cautiously cracking open the door, Dorian peeked outside and saw a settlement in chaos. Buildings were burning. Dark shapes were darting here and there, firelight glinting off the metal in their hands. Shouts and cries of pain filled the air, and a quick sweep of his eyes revealed more than one motionless shape on the ground.

Was it a rebellion from within the ranks? An attack from another group of barbarians? Dorian couldn't get a good look at the shapes moving through the night to tell and even if he could, he doubted he would be able to notice a difference. One mud-spattered, half-naked lunatic looked like much the same as every other one.

_Except for Cullen_ , a sly voice in the back of Dorian's mind pointed out. He ignored it. Just like he ignored the faint wonder—he would not call it _concern_ —as to whether Cullen was among the dead. It hardly mattered.

As he considered whether he should get his things and try to sneak out or if he wanted to investigate further and maybe help... someone, he wasn't sure how much help he'd be when he didn't know who the enemy actually was, a mud-slathered barbarian came running around the hut, wearing some kind of horned helmet and brandishing an axe. Dorian couldn't tell if he was one of Cullen's clan or not and he wasn't inclined to stay to find out.

Not wishing to be trapped in the hut and lit on fire, Dorian darted through the doorway and out into the camp. With a yell of something incomprehensible, the barbarian gave chase. Swearing, Dorian ran for a few paces, gathering his magic, then turned and unleashed a small ball of fire at him. Whether it was the close proximity, a symptom of his tired and as yet not fully recovered body, or something else, it didn't have the desired effect. The man batted it aside and lunged forward, grabbed a fistful of Dorian's robe and yanked.

It jerked him off-balance and he stumbled, cursing again, before lashing out with the bladed end of his staff. The man hissed in pain as it scored a line across his thigh, but he immediately retaliated with a backhand that struck Dorian across the face and sent him reeling. It was like the attack at the campsite all over again, only this time he could see true bloodlust in the man's eyes. This warrior had no intention of capturing him to take back to a settlement. He meant to kill him, and the bloody blade of his axe seemed to gleam in the firelight with that wicked promise as it cut an arc through the air toward his chest.

_This is it,_ Dorian thought in dismayed disbelief, as everything around him seemed to slow to a standstill. _This is where the great Dorian Pavus meets his end_. It all stood out in lurid detail. The barbarian's mouth contorted into a snarl. The lopsided tilt of his impractical helmet. A whorl of paint, or maybe it was mud, that looked a little like the freakish muzzle of a dracolisk. The thick musk of over two hundred pounds of sweaty man covered in wet dirt and tanned hide.

As far as deaths went, it was a terribly embarrassing one, and Dorian's last thought, as he struggled for and failed to find his balance fast enough to block the axe, was that at least no one from his homeland would find out how he died. It was a small mercy, but as his life had always been rather short on those, he was willing to take it with a modicum of gratitude.

Until a sword glowing with a greenish kind of light swept in out of nowhere and knocked into the axe so hard that it tore it out of the barbarian's hand and sent it flying into the darkness.

Perhaps it was just the flood of adrenaline that made the moment so surreal, or the nauseating certainty that he was going to die abruptly ending in survival. Whatever the case, Dorian was feeling rather like he was asleep, trying to navigate the inconsistent and often baffling landscape of the Fade as he turned his head to look at his unexpected savior. Like a scene out of a rubbish romance novel, there was Cullen, hair hanging in a wild, curly tangle, wearing nothing but his boots and that ridiculous loincloth, spattered in blood, holding a sword that was obviously enchanted, and smiling in such a fiercely feral way that it set Dorian's heart racing.

_In terror_ , he assured himself. _I'm traumatized. I was nearly killed by a filthy doglord. Of course I'm unsettled._

Cullen didn't wait for a word of thanks for saving his life. The moment the axe left the other barbarian's hand, he was moving forward, lunging into his reach and plunging the tip of his sword into the other man's gut. He struggled briefly, jerking on the blade like he was trying to work himself off of it, before going limp. Making a contemptuous sound, Cullen shook him off of his sword and turned away before the body had even completed its drop to the ground.

"Are you well?" he asked, sounding rather frustratingly not out of breath for such a lot of exertion.

Dorian blinked at him, struggling to engage his brain into producing something in the vicinity of a legitimate answer. _Because of the concussion_ , he told himself firmly, even though he knew that the blow hadn't been _that_ hard. It was just easier than admitting it had anything to do with Cullen behaving like a badly written avenging savior.

"Is this how you people spend your evenings? Burning down your villages and slapping foreigners around?" Dorian clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, as if they weren't standing in the middle of a minor battlefield. "Keep it up and you'll never get any visitors."

Cullen eyed him with assessing intensity for a moment, then turned his attention to their surroundings. "Wolfhold," he declared, like he expected it to mean anything to Dorian.

"What?"

Those gold eyes— _which are not more captivating in the glow of firelight_ , Dorian told himself firmly—shifted back to him. "Wolfhold warriors," he explained, slashing his sword down sharply in a gesture that was baffling until Dorian realized he was shaking the blood off of it. "This is a raid."

That sounded ominous. "Does this happen often?" Dorian was careful to keep his voice sounding as though his night had been personally ruined by the commotion.

"No."

Getting answers out of Cullen was proving to be incredibly difficult. Dorian sighed irritably. "What do they want?"

"I intend to find out," he responded, voice so dark and deep it was almost a growl.

Dorian swallowed and gave himself a mental kick. "Would you like a little help?"

As much as he wanted to leave, Cullen had just saved his life. And fed him. And gave him shelter. And gave him back all of his belongings. It might not have been his home or his fight, but it seemed cowardly and rude to just cut and run in the middle of a battle. Dorian Pavus was not cowardly. Rude, certainly, but never a coward.

Genuine though the offer was, he was expecting to be told to get back in the hut or some other variation on _get out of the way_. And once again, Cullen defied his low expectations.

He turned that fierce, wild smile on Dorian. "You would fight at my side?" Maker help him, he sounded excited by the prospect.

That excitement and the smile—a large part of it was definitely the smile, whatever his denial wanted to claim—conspired to draw a sharp smile of his own onto Dorian's mouth. It was flashy, and admittedly a waste of energy, but he couldn't resist calling fire to the focusing crystal at the top of his staff. "I'll try not to set you on fire."

And Cullen, the bastard, laughed gleefully and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come, then. Let the gods take notice of our strength."

Perhaps they did. Dorian wasn't an expert on gods in general, least of all those of southern barbarians, but he had to admit that they killed an impressive number of raiders between them. It was still difficult for Dorian to tell which were allies and which were enemies, but he figured that anyone who attacked him despite seeing him at the thane's side was fair game and when that failed, he only had to look to see which direction Cullen was swinging his eerie looking sword in to know who next to target. He used his staff more than his magic, trusting in the battlemage skills he'd learned in Tevinter. When quarters got too close and it looked like Cullen would have to come to his rescue again, rather dashing in theory but humiliating in practice, Dorian quit conserving his mana and laid into his foes with fire and fear.

Once they even rescued an elderly man who'd been trapped under a beam in a burning hut. Cullen had lifted the thing off of him as Dorian had quelled the flames with only a few stolen glances at the man as he'd worked. It was strangely exhilarating how seamlessly they seemed to work together, but there wasn't time to dwell on why or how that might be. Dorian was a skilled mage. Cullen was a warrior of such ability that his people were willing to be led by him. It wasn't a surprise that they knew how to maneuver around each other on the battlefield.

Despite the cold mountain air, there was sweat dampening the hair at the back of Dorian's neck as he withdrew his staff blade from the gut of his most recent kill. His traveling clothes were blood-spattered and dirty and there was a headache throbbing in the base of his skull again, but he was surprised to find that he was actually _enjoying_ himself. Just a little bit.

Cullen was turning to him, mouth opening to say something, when a shout interrupted him before he could get started. "Thane!"

They both turned, Dorian lifting his staff in preparation to unleash a devastating fire spell if aid was needed. But instead of a group of lunatics bristling weapons converging on an injured man, it was an armed warrior jogging their way.

"What is it, Tyrkir?" he called, stepping toward the man while keeping a wary eye on their surroundings.

Dorian fell in behind him, guarding his back while he attended to whatever his clansman wanted. Cullen must have sensed the motion and recognized it for what it was, because he stopped looking around and focused on the man.

"It's Gerrid," the other man explained as he reached them. Out of breath, he gestured in a direction that was utterly meaningless to Dorian. There was a wavy line of darker color marring a swirl of his warpaint near his hairline. Without needing to see it in proper light, Dorian knew it was blood.

"What about her?" Cullen demanded, a hard edge sliding into his voice.

"They've taken her."

If it was a word that Cullen snarled then, Dorian couldn't understand it. "Find out if anyone else is missing," he ordered, anger clear in his voice. "And get a number of the wounded and dead." Starting to move away, he stopped and swung back around to face Tyrkir. "And if there are any raiders left, capture them alive."

The man nodded sharply. "At once, Thane."

He departed immediately and Cullen didn't wait, stalking off in the direction that Tyrkir had indicated. With no other clear course of action available, Dorian followed, keeping one eye on Cullen moving like an ominous thundercloud through the village and one eye on the darkness in case it chose to expel more armed raiders in their direction. But silence in the face of the unknown wasn't his strong suit and Dorian's curiosity finally got the better of him.

"What's going on?"

Cullen's answer was immediate and curt. "They've taken Gerrid."

Gerrid was clearly someone important if he was so furious about it. A sister? A lover? The prickly feeling that followed on the heels of that thought was summarily ignored. He wasn't jealous. He barely knew the man, he wasn't going to stay here, and this wasn't the first handsome face he'd encountered in his life. It didn't matter who she beyond sating his innate curiosity.

"Yes, I rather gathered that from what the last fellow said," Dorian quipped sarcastically.

There was annoyance in Cullen's expression when he glanced back at him, which only served to make Dorian bristle defensively. It wasn't _his_ fault the damn woman had been abducted. Was it? _No_ , he thought, dismissing the idea as ridiculous. _If they'd wanted me, they would've come for me. Not gone after someone else._

"She's the augur's apprentice," Cullen said tightly, sounding as annoyed as he looked.

And because Dorian was feeling defensive, he snapped at him. "Do you ever _actually_ explain things or is it always this difficult to get an answer out of you?"

Cullen's dark eyebrows knitted together as he frowned at him. "She's a shaman. A mage. Like you." He turned his eyes toward the path ahead. "A powerful one. The augur was training her to take his place."

That was a little better. Not perfect, Dorian still had no idea why another group of barbarians had spirited her away, but at least he had a piece of the puzzle. The woman was a powerful mage.

"Why did they take her?" he pressed, less snidely now.

Cullen shook his head. "I don't know."

Whatever else he might have said, if he was going to say anything else at all, was interrupted by their arrival at another hut. A cluster of barbarians stood outside the broken door, speaking loud and fast over one another. Since they didn't look as though they were about to attack, Dorian thought it safe to assume they were part of the village, and that assumption was verified when they came into view and the crowd caught sight of Cullen.

"Thane!" one exclaimed, before the others took it up and rushed forward to speak with—or at, as the case might have been—him.

Not knowing what else to do with himself, Dorian hung back, staying well out of the way as Cullen conferred with his people and went inside the hut, presumably to investigate. From listening to what the people were saying, Dorian was able to piece together enough of an explanation that he didn't have to wonder at what was going on. This was the apprentice's hut. The raiders had apparently attacked en masse after the majority of the village had retired to their beds and had cut a path directly to the hut. The fighting and fires had been a diversion, or perhaps just an opportunity to cause chaos. That last bit was currently being contested amongst a group of barbarians and after deciding that they were ultimately arguing over nothing, Dorian tuned them out.

The raiders, from Wolfhold Cullen had said, were enemies of Red-Lion Hold, though no one happened to bring up why this was so. A snippet of memory from Dorian's initial conversation with Cullen forced itself to the forefront of his mind and he wondered idly if it had something to do with Cullen's surname. Maybe they were offended that the thane of another clan was called Wolf-Bane. Or since they identified with wolves, perhaps they just didn't like lions. Of course, it was equally possible that it had nothing to do with any of the reasons Dorian made up and was really just the product of some inexplicable barbarian animosity. Surely they had politics here, uncivilized and rudimentary as it might be.

_Maybe someone ate someone else's goat and they've been feuding ever since_ , Dorian thought snidely, crossing his arms over his chest and pointedly ignoring the way some of them were glancing his way. They'd brought him here, what did they expect? That he wouldn't actually _be_ here? _What was I thinking, ever coming this far south?_

A sudden increase in movement among the crowd milling about in front of the hut heralded the reemergence of Cullen. He still looked angry and there was an unyielding set to his jaw that reminded Dorian of magisters on the warpath.

"Secure the hold," he was saying to a man next to him who wasn't Tyrkir. At least, Dorian didn't think it was Tyrkir. Though it could have been, what did he know? "I'll recover our missing people."

Dorian's eyebrows rose at that, ruining his nonchalant eavesdropping. It couldn't be what it sounded like. One man against however many Wolf-people there were was insane. Even for a mud-covered savage.

Breaking off from the group, which was already starting to disperse to do whatever it was the thane had decided they were going to do while he was gone, Cullen made his way over to Dorian. Half expecting him to keep going, Dorian was surprised when he came up alongside him and gestured for him to follow. In the middle of an emergency that was understandably upsetting him, the last thing Dorian thought he'd worry about was the out of place foreigner.

"Four other members of the clan are gone," Cullen told him as they made their way back down the winding path they'd charged up earlier. "Taken by the raiders. I'm going to—"

"Go on a heroic suicide mission to rescue them, yes," Dorian cut in, looking askance at him. In _disbelief_ , he told himself firmly. It wasn't concern. "I heard. Are you mad? How many are there?"

Cullen shrugged with a maddening lack of concern. "It doesn't matter. Smaller numbers travel faster than larger ones." He finally looked at Dorian. "They attacked my people. They brought this on themselves."

The way he said it, it sounded as if he almost felt sorry for them. Which made absolutely no sense, because he was _one man_ going up against who knew how many others? He wasn't a mage. Dorian wanted to point that out so badly he had to consciously keep his mouth closed. He couldn't summon a storm or a wildfire or a host of spirits to cut his opponents down. He had a glowing sword, and though it was interesting to look at and Dorian couldn't deny a certain amount of curiosity over what it did and why it glowed like that, it wasn't enough to take on a small army.

Against his will, his mouth opened and like a man standing before a burst dam, Dorian braced himself for the tirade he knew was coming. "I'm going with you."

For a surreal moment, he looked around, wondering who'd just said that. It hadn't been him. Of course it wasn't him. He wanted nothing to do with this madness. He just wanted to leave. And yet, there was no one else walking with them and Cullen was looking at _him_ in confusion, not some suicidal third party.

"It isn't your fight," Cullen said reasonably, clearly trying to talk him out of the offer he hadn't wanted to make in the first place, and because of it, Dorian felt the perverse need to argue with him.

"Yes, well, you saved my life," he told him stiffly. "I may as well save yours."

_Why am I like this?_ Dorian thought mournfully, seeing a startlingly vivid vision of a future he wanted absolutely no parts of unfold in his mind's eye. _Why do I do these things? Why?_ There was no answer forthcoming from the contradictory depths of his soul, or the Maker, or any other potentially god-like parties who might be watching Dorian Pavus Make Another Foolish Mistake.

And there was certainly no help from Cullen, who wasn't fighting him on his asinine offer. "Very well. Prepare." As they came upon a fork in the path, Cullen turned away from him, presumably to go do the same. "I will speak with Selkor and meet you at the gate."

That left Dorian to his own devices, standing awkwardly in the path, not entirely certain how precisely to find the hut he'd been sleeping in. He'd still been in a bit of shock when he'd been shown to it, and now it was dark, with so much commotion and smoke from the dwindling fires that he couldn't be sure which way to go. But he couldn't keep standing there either. Picking a direction that he thought _might_ be the one he'd come from, Dorian started walking, hoping either he'd find the hut or the gate before Cullen got impatient and left without him.

With only a modicum of trial and error, and no further attempts on his life by raiders or friendly- _ish_ barbarians, he did find the hut. There wasn't much to do to prepare. He put on a warmer cloak for traveling and snapped a small knife to the back of his belt for emergencies. Then, in a last minute decision, he pocketed the bottle of lyrium. _Last resort,_ he thought grimly, not wanting to waste it but not wanting to get killed on this idiotic venture either.

He spared a moment for considering grabbing the rest of his things and high-tailing it out of there in the confusion, but stubborn pride overrode self-preservation and when he left the hut again, he left the belongings he wouldn't need behind. The village was still in an uproar. People were hurrying to and fro. Many looked angry, when he could catch glimpses of their expressions in the firelight. Others looked to be grieving. Wanting to intrude on neither group, Dorian kept to himself, determined to find the gate on his own.

Having gone so long without drawing anyone's ire, he was half-expecting to get accosted as he wandered around. A number of people looked his way, but beyond frowns and expressions of confusion, they didn't bother him. Too busy, perhaps, or they'd judged him not worth the effort. A small part of him wanted to be offended at being so blatantly disregarded. The rest of him was thankful for the reprieve from hostility.

As it turned out, it was harder to find the hut than the gate. Leaving the hut, he'd chosen to go in the opposite direction of the path he and Cullen had taken. It led away from the side of the mountain and after only a few minutes, he found himself standing on a wide path of packed dirt. Behind him was the noise of the village and ahead was a stockade of tall, rough-hewn logs. Everything about it screamed _gate_ , but there was no one around. Not Cullen. Not even a guard.

Had he gone without him? Dorian couldn't decide how he most wanted that question to be answered. If he had, that meant he wouldn't need to risk his life for something that wasn't any of his business and he could get on his way and leave these lunatics far behind. But if he had, that meant that he had no faith in Dorian's abilities or courage, and _that_ was more offensive than getting out of this insanity would be a relief. 

His fingers drummed absently against the grip of his staff. There wasn't anything he could do but wait. However, if he stood here waiting _too_ long, he would assume that Cullen left without him and get on his way. Insulted, yes, but alive, and that _was_ better, whatever his ego contrarily insisted.

But the wait wasn't interminable. Only a few minutes passed after he made his resolution before he heard voices approaching. Two of them, though it was only when they came into view that he could begin to make out what they were saying. One of them could have been Tyrkir, or it could have been someone else, Dorian was never going to be able to tell these people apart. But the other was clearly Cullen.

He was wearing trousers now, though the loincloth was still there, and thick leather gauntlet-like coverings on his forearms. His strange sword—not glowing at the moment—was hanging at his hip. The biggest difference between now and when last he'd seen him, however, was the mud and paint slathered over his bare chest and down his arms. Paint covered his face as well, in thick, boldly jagged lines of black and grey and one lone streak of red that slashed straight down from his eyebrow to the rise of his cheekbone. There was a pattern to the mud and paint on his chest, but for the life of him, Dorian couldn't figure out what it meant.

"Do you want one of the eagles?" the unidentified man next to him was asking as they approached.

"No," Cullen responded. "I've asked Selkor to join us."

They were close enough that when Dorian's bemused, "Eagles?" slipped out of his mouth, Cullen's attention left the man at his side and focused intently on him.

"Eagles accompany our hunting parties," he explained. An actual explanation! Dorian didn't know whether to praise him in the hopes that it would encourage him to do so without further prompting again sometime in the future or faint from shock. "They are our eyes. Nothing escapes them."

"And you _don't_ want one?"

"No."

_Of course not._ Dorian scowled. An eagle that was able to scout ahead, from the sounds of it, couldn't possibly be useful on a crazy rescue mission. No. Why, if he was going to start bringing eagles, he might as well bring armed men with him. A small army, even! And then where would they be? _Alive_ , he thought morbidly. _Safe in our beds._

Knowing it was useless to voice any of that, he said instead, "So this Selkor fellow is better than an eagle at finding things?"

He was fully prepared to hear Cullen say no and maybe, if he was lucky, offer an unsatisfying explanation for why a bad tracker was better than a good one, but Cullen surprised him again. He smiled a kind of darkly smug, wicked smile that twisted up Dorian's insides once more. "Aye," he said, voice such a low rumble that it was nearly a purr. Beside him, his nondescript clansman grinned.

_Maker save me from infuriatingly attractive savages,_ Dorian thought hopelessly, digging his fingernails into his staff. It wasn't as grounding as he would have liked, not with Cullen standing there in front of him smiling like that, but it was better than saying something he would _absolutely_ regret later. This wasn't the time to flirt and Dorian had standards. They weren't always as high as they ought to be, but they'd never included mud and dirt before and they weren't going to start.

"Can't wait to meet him," he made himself say, uncaring that it came out sounding as doubtful as he felt about the whole venture. "Speaking of." He cast a pointed look around the otherwise abandoned gate. "Where is he?"

Cullen became considerably less attractive when he shrugged as if he couldn't care less and said, "He will follow." Then, apparently deciding that the small matter of planning their attack was too boring to continue, he started moving toward the gate. "Come."

Digging in his heels, figuratively as well as literally, Dorian changed tacks. "Where's your armor?"

He didn't even look up from where he was pulling the gate open. "I'm wearing all I require."

It was stupid, but Dorian looked helplessly at the other man, hoping vainly for support or at the very least, an explanation for his thane's reckless behavior. The man just smiled at him, like he thought _Dorian_ was the idiot.

_I hate these people_ , he thought miserably, turning back to Cullen. _They're going to get me killed and I hate them._ "Mud?"

"Paint," Cullen corrected, then gestured him to follow. "Come now."

The other man was still grinning, almost smirking, at Dorian's disgusted disbelief. There was no help there. With a sigh, a roll of his eyes, and a silent prayer to anything that might be listening and feeling benevolent, Dorian followed him through the stockade and out into the wilds.

"Paint will hardly stop a sword," he told him, picking up the conversation before the gate had even closed behind them.

"No," Cullen agreed calmly. "But my blade will."

He couldn't decide if that level of confidence was impressive and attractive or irritating and unappealingly stupid, and because he couldn't decide, he just got angry with himself for letting the thane affect him so. "And if there are arrows?" he pressed. "Or magic?"

"I am protected."

"By paint?"

"Aye." The look Cullen gave him nearly stopped him in mid-step. "And by you."

In Tevinter, everyone knew of his magical prowess. Dorian's exploits in the Circles were approaching legend among the enchanters he'd spent so much of his life terrorizing. And beyond that, Gereon Alexius would not have taken just any mage in as his apprentice. He only took the best, and that he'd chosen someone with as tarnished a reputation as Dorian despite what his peers in the magisterium no doubt thought spoke volumes about Dorian's skill.

Cullen had no idea what he could do. He'd never seen Dorian summon a raging firestorm or bind spirits to the dead. He couldn't possibly have any notion of how much power Dorian wasted on flashy displays, not because he was untrained in the art of using his mana most effectively, but because he had so much of it to spare that it didn't matter how much flare he put into his spells. He didn't even know that he was a necromancer. Yet with a look and three words, he'd expressed more belief in Dorian, a veritable stranger, than Dorian had received from people who knew him since childhood ever had.

_Because he's a barbarian_ , Dorian reminded himself as he viciously pushed down the swell of warmth that had tightened his chest at hearing such sincere belief in his abilities. _He doesn't know any better. Obviously. He thinks_ mud _will protect him, for Maker's sake._

"So you hope," Dorian muttered, making it sound as ominous as possible.

It didn't work. Cullen didn't look concerned. "You chose to accompany me when you could have left the hold. There is no reason to distrust you."

That should have been enough. It was logical and reasonable, but Cullen had since proven that he only had a tentative relationship with the concepts. And Dorian, with his emotions pulling him in twenty different directions, decided that estrangement was the better option for himself right now. Which was why, instead of accepting the answer and letting it go, he continued to needle him.

"What if I'm in cahoots with the wolf people?" He adopted a thoughtful tone. "Perhaps I'm meant to kill you when you're alone."

"I'm not alone," Cullen disagreed, sounding entirely too amused by the conversation than he had any right to be. "Selkor is with me." Dorian frowned at him—there was no one with them and Cullen knew it—but Cullen just kept talking. "And you are not a spy."

The frown turned skeptical. "You sound awfully certain of that."

"I am."

Dorian blew out an exasperated breath. "Why?"

Cullen simply looked at him. " _Are_ you in league with them?"

"No, but—"

The look grew pointed, emphasized by the way Cullen lifted his eyebrows.

"I could be lying!" He knew that he was arguing over nothing and that he'd lost the thread of the argument somewhere along the way, but it was argue like a fool about a problem that didn't exist or throttle the big dumb idiot. "You can't just believe everything you're told!"

"I don't," Cullen replied plainly.

"Then—"

"Shh." Cullen laid one of his hands on Dorian's shoulder and gripped gently. "We must move quietly now."

Dorian scowled at him, certain that Cullen was just trying to cheat his way to a victory, but subsided without further comment. If he was telling the truth and this stretch of dark, rocky ground was any different than the one they'd already crossed, he didn't what his mouth to be the reason they were killed by enemy barbarians.

But after walking for what felt like forever, they encountered nothing but the shadowy shapes of trees, some bushes, a few rocks, and a stream they'd walked along until Cullen found a place to cross. No raiders leaped out from the dark, there were no ambushes, and the only sounds Dorian heard seemed unremarkable for being out in the mountains in the middle of the night: birds, leaves moving against each other in the breeze, the occasional hoot and growl of some exotic southern beasts.

"Do you know where we're going?" he finally asked, breaking the silence with a soft whisper.

When Cullen didn't tell him to shut up, his suspicion that he'd been manipulated into shutting up earlier grew stronger. "Aye."

Dorian clenched his jaw against the impulse to tell him what he thought of his monosyllabic answers. "Are we walking all the way to, what did you call it... Wolfhold?" 

"No."

When taking a deep breath didn't put a damper on his temper, Dorian growled warningly, "Cullen..."

Evidently the meaning was clear, or perhaps he received so many complaints about his conversational ineptitude that he was used to it, because he started to elaborate. "Wolfhold is over a day's journey from Red-Lion Hold. They had to make camp to arrive with the energy to fight. They'll be doing so again." It seemed like that would be all he had to say on the matter, but after a pause, he added, "We are going to their campsite."

It wasn't overly verbose, but Dorian supposed that they needed to start somewhere. "Seems foolish to return to a campsite known to their enemies. Wouldn't they expect that you'll follow them to reclaim your people?"

There was enough ambient light—from the moon, the stars, and the oddly glowing lichen that grew on the plants and rocks here—that he could see Cullen's face fairly well when he nodded. "Of course." His eyes shifted sideways to glance at Dorian. "They will make camp somewhere they believe I will not expect."

Dorian could tell that he was trying to make it sound perfectly reasonable, but the sheer lunacy that he was hearing nearly struck him speechless. There was a whole _day's_ worth of land between the settlements and Cullen was just assuming that he'd find the campsite? He could have taken an eagle that presumably could see well enough at night to be useful in endeavors such as this, and he'd refused because he didn't believe it necessary? Because some man named Selkor, who had never shown up, was better at this kind of thing than an eagle that could fly overhead and see for miles in any direction?

He didn't raise his voice, but he wanted to very badly. "Then how will you find them?" He held up a hand the second the words left his mouth. "And if you say that you'll look where you'd least expect, I promise, I _will_ set you on fire."

Cullen grinned in amusement, his teeth a flash of white against the dark smears of paint that covered his face. "Selkor is following their trail."

That... was almost as frustrating as what he'd warned him against saying. Had it not been nighttime, where a fire would been seen more easily from a significant distance, Dorian would have summoned a few sparks of it to his hand and threatened him with it. Because that wasn’t an option, he was forced to express his aggravation with a disgusted sigh.

Again Cullen reached out to him, this time clasping his bicep, and gave a squeeze that was probably meant to be reassuring. Though the fact that his grin didn’t fade while he did it made it rather ineffective. "Have a little faith in me."

Dorian would have liked nothing better than to snap back that since Cullen had had him abducted, what he was asking was well-nigh impossible. But that would have been a lie and no doubt some part of that lie would make itself obvious and betray him. The truth was, despite his capture being vehicle for their unconventional meeting, Cullen had been nothing short of polite and tolerable with him since he'd been brought to his throne-cave. Moreover, he'd gone out of his way to see to his comfort, save his life when it was in danger, and let him tag along on what was really none of his business.

A case could be made that Cullen was letting him come along because he wanted the kind of backup only a mage could provide, but Dorian didn't find it far-fetched to believe that if he hadn't been in the hold tonight, Cullen wouldn't have blinked an eye at the prospect of going out alone after the missing clanspeople.

No, the problem was that Dorian _did_ have some measure of faith in him. He wasn't yet certain about the depth of it or what it entailed—that required a level of self-examination that he rarely employed—but he knew that it was there, lurking in the back of his mind, ready to encourage him to risk life and limb for foolish reasons.

With a grumble, Dorian shrugged off his hand and kept walking. Everything in him wanted to whack viciously at the tall stalk of a nearby plant with the blade of his staff as he stomped by, but he resisted the impulse. They were trying not to make too much noise. With his luck, he'd cause a racket only to discover that they were right on top of the hidden campsite. Detrimental to the cause though that would have been, for good or ill it would have brought this endless night to a close. And Dorian, who was eager to leave all of this behind him, dearly wanted the night to end.

_At least if I'm dead I won't have to wade through this wretched underbrush,_ he thought grumpily, keeping one eye on the path and the other on Cullen. _That's one small mercy._ He didn't want to die, but Maevaris always told him to look on the bright side no matter how dire the circumstances. That was the brightest side he could find to his predicament.

He was in the middle of composing a rather melodramatic goodbye to her, a letter he would never send even if he could, when he felt an uneasy prickle along the back of his neck. Dorian couldn't say why that was. He'd heard nothing out of the ordinary. He'd seen nothing of note. Cullen wasn't any tenser than he'd been a moment ago. But _something_ was different.

Growing hyper-alert as the seconds passed and the source of his unease had yet to make itself known, Dorian scanned their surroundings. He could see nothing in the darkness, no deeper shadow, no flicker of movement, no glint of light off of an unconcealed buckle. But there was something out there. Something was watching them. 

A few minutes later, as they stepped out from beneath a cluster of trees into a wide-open clearing, he saw moonlight gleam off of two large eyes some distance away.

Muscles tensing, Dorian fought against the urge to freeze. Whatever it was, it was big, and here in the south, the Maker only knew what kind of monsters lurked in the mountains. The eyes winked out, which turned out to be more terrifying than the sight of them, then reappeared a moment later further on ahead in the direction they were traveling.

As nonchalantly as he could, Dorian drew closer to Cullen. So close that their arms brushed and the contact drew Cullen's attention away from the path to focus his way.

"Cullen..." Dorian's voice was a soft murmur, slightly urgent with wariness. 

He must have heard the urgency, because his voice was so low Dorian almost didn't hear the sound of his acknowledgement. "Hm?"

Not knowing what it was that was lurking out there, Dorian was hesitant to point. If it was smart, it was better to pretend that he didn't notice it. A beast might not be capable of that level of thought, but darkspawn... Just the thought made cold dread trickle into his gut.

Aiming for casual, he tipped his head in the direction of the eyes. "Something's here."

He watched Cullen's eyes dart in the indicated direction, though instead of reaching for his sword, he actually seemed to relax. That suspicion was verified a moment later when, instead of whispering, he said quietly, "Selkor."

Dorian looked at him sharply. "You mean whatever _ate_ Selkor."

A soft chuckle preceded Cullen gently shaking his head. "Be at ease. I told you Selkor was with us."

There was nothing reassuring about that. Dorian fell silent, but his attention kept drifting back to the eyes, which disappeared and reappeared every few minutes. Whatever it was, it was moving with them and it saw them, though it never came close enough to show itself. Which probably meant that Cullen was correct, but that knowledge didn't do much to erase Dorian's uneasiness. The way Cullen spoke of him, he'd thought Selkor to be another barbarian. But this wasn't a person. Human eyes didn't gleam in the dark and they were too large and the wrong shape to be elven.

Cullen wasn't disturbed, however, and it even seemed like he moved with more confidence now. His steps were more certain, and every once in a while, Dorian caught movement from the corner of his eye that turned out to be Cullen reaching for his sword. He said nothing to indicate that they were getting closer, but in the hope that they were, Dorian didn't persist with his questions.

His feet were starting to complain and the adrenaline that had kept him going through so much of the night was starting to fade by the time Cullen abruptly stopped and gripped his arm. Tired and flagging, he shuffled to a halt and looked at him, eyebrows raised in inquiry.

"Up ahead," Cullen told him, nodding toward a cluster of trees from which a faint light could be seen.

It wasn't the golden glow of firelight, just more of the odd blue-green glow that the lichen gave off, and Dorian couldn't hear voices like he would have expected from a campsite, but there was surety in Cullen's voice and his hand was tight around the hilt of his sword. "You're sure?"

Cullen nodded once.

He was probably hoping for too much, but he had to ask. "Do you have a plan?"

"Aye." Dorian held his breath, waiting for it. He wasn't disappointed. "Kill the raiders. Free the captives."

At the last second, he remembered to keep the exhale silent. "Yes, but—"

"Follow my lead," Cullen cut him off, already moving forward, slipping from one shadow to the next like he was part of them.

Dorian clenched his teeth, took a deep breath, debated sending a prayer to the Maker to get them out of this alive before deciding against it, and followed. He couldn't mimic the predatory grace with which Cullen moved, but he was able to keep himself concealed in the darkness. The ominous eyes that had been watching them had vanished, and with his mind on a small army of angry, bloodthirsty savages awaiting them, he didn't pause to wonder what had become of them. He was just starting to feel a fine tVestarl of optimism—Cullen wasn't running toward the camp yelling at the top of his lungs like a flaming idiot—at their chance of success when, near the outskirts of the campsite, a painted barbarian surged up seemingly out of nowhere in front of him.

Jerking backward with a sharp intake of breath, Dorian lifted a hand, automatically reaching within himself for his magic. Before he could cast a fire spell that would have revealed their presence to anyone in the vicinity with the ability to see, Cullen appeared behind the other warrior. Slapping a palm over his mouth, he pulled his head back, simultaneously sliding a small knife across his throat. The man died with only a faint gurgle, too quiet to be heard in the camp. Cullen eased the body silently to the ground, wiped off his knife against the dead man's vest, and rose to his feet.

Because Dorian was staring at him, still recovering from his surprise at how fast he'd moved, he noticed the way Cullen crooked an eyebrow at him. It was an interrogative gesture; without needing further elaboration on its meaning, Dorian nodded. He was fine. Cullen studied him a moment longer, then gave a quick nod of his own and melted back into the darkness.

There wasn't time to wait until the pounding of his heart subsided to a normal rhythm. Dorian took a deep breath, got a firmer grip on his staff, and got moving. Not a moment too soon, either, as Cullen finally left the concealment of the trees and entered the camp proper. Just for an instant, before the camp erupted into chaos, Dorian saw at least twenty men, though with such a cursory glance, the number could have been as high as thirty. Some were sleeping. Others were standing guard. Still more were standing in groups, talking quietly amongst themselves.

But then Cullen was charging across the clearing, his sword cutting an eerie line of emerald light through the dark as it cut down each man he swung it against, and as the bodies began to fall, the other Wolfhold warriors sprang forward to confront him.

Unwilling to leave his back unprotected, Dorian was close behind. And with no further reason to attempt to be stealthy, he let the magic well up within himself with abandon. The crystal at the top of his staff spat sparks as he summoned balls of flame that he then hurled at the closest armed barbarians. Then he was raising his hands, pulling sheets of fire from the ground below a group of charging men. They disappeared in the blaze, screaming as it consumed them.

Another chorus of screams, these sounding more terrified than agonized or angry, started somewhere to Dorian's right. Bewildered, for Cullen was ahead of him gutting a man who’d been trying to behead him with a giant axe, he glanced in the direction of the sound. And froze.

An enormous lion, fur and shaggy mane a mottle of red and black, was standing in the midst of a circle of barbarians. As Dorian watched, it lunged forward, disemboweling one man with a swipe of one huge paw and tearing out the throat of another with its wickedly sharp teeth. Almost as if it could feel his scrutiny, the lion swung its head in Dorian's direction and without pausing to consider the wisdom of his actions, Dorian shot a bolt of lightning at it.

The lion leaped to the side, snarling in what couldn't be mistaken for anything other than fury. Seemingly as an afterthought, it raked its claws across the back of a fleeing man's leg, laying the flesh open to the bone and causing him to fall with a shriek of pain. The creature pounced on the fallen man, taking him by the back of his neck and snapping it with one powerful bite.

Whether it was the scream or the snarl, something about the commotion drew Cullen's attention. He glanced over, saw the crackle of electricity still gathered around Dorian's upraised hand, and shouted, "Selkor's on _our_ side!"

Dorian's attention left the lion to stare at Cullen in wide-eyed disbelief. " _That's_ Selkor?"

Even though he’d seen the inhuman eyes in the forest and Cullen had confirmed their owner to be the mysterious Selkor, Dorian still hadn’t been prepared for this. He’d been expecting a fellow member of the clan, perhaps not human but certainly not a wild beast. Dorian's gaze shifted back to the lion, which was in the process of mauling another man. 

"You've much to learn about the Avvar!" Cullen called, having the temerity to sound amused by Dorian's surprise. "There is more to a clan than—" He broke off with a grunt.

Dorian whipped around to face him so fast he nearly made himself dizzy. Cullen was doubled over, snarling, as another raider jerked a sword from his side. There was blood on the blade. Even in the strange lighting, Dorian could see it clearly. He took a step toward them, electricity gathering in his hand, but Cullen still moved faster than he did.

Spinning around, one hand pressed against his bleeding side, he bashed the man in the face with the pommel of his sword. As the raider staggered back, Cullen reversed the path of the blade and ran him through. And he didn't stop, like a sensible man who'd been injured no doubt would have done. He turned to meet the next man without uttering a complaint or another sound of pain.

Dorian pressed his lips together, gathered his mana, and unleashed a rain of fire on the camp, dispensing with flashy theatrics in order to keep the flames from Cullen and the lion. The battle needed to end so that he could examine the extent of the man's injuries. Lightning followed fire, and because he could sense the presence of a few spirits lingering near the Veil, he called them into the corpses and bid the bodies to rise to fight alongside them.

Cullen was the first to notice the dead, as one stepped forward to intercept a raider's axe. He started, looking wide-eyed at Dorian, sword wavering in his hand.

"Focus on the living," Dorian called to him, simultaneously wondering if the lion would heed his words and feeling like a fool for even considering the possibility. "I'll worry about the dead."

To his credit, Cullen didn't waste time or breath questioning him. He left the raider to the dead man beside him and set to bringing down another. Dorian sent bolts of lightning arcing through a group of raiders that were getting too close to Cullen, stunning them for a moment before causing the ground to erupt under their feet. The lyrium potion, forgotten until he felt his strength beginning to flag, was an alluring presence at his belt. Just at the edge of his senses, he could feel it singing to him, like the faintest touch of breeze prickling the hair at the back of his neck.

_Not now,_ he told himself firmly, forcing his focus elsewhere. His strength wasn't yet depleted and he wouldn't rely on it simply because it was easier. Depending on the damage that may have been done to Cullen's insides, he couldn't afford to waste it.

Fortunately for both of them, the battle didn't last much longer. Wounded though he was, Cullen fought like a demon. Every blow scored against him was returned with a fierceness that was a little alarming, and no matter how large the stain of blood streaking his side became, he didn't stop. For all Dorian knew, the lion _was_ a demon. Its snarls and growls reached an uncanny timbre and it tore people apart with such savageness that Dorian was hesitant to turn his back to it. And although Dorian wasn't quite as hands-on as the other two were, he was certainly no wilting flower incapable of defending himself.

He might be significantly less bloody than Cullen, but at least half of the dead raiders were scorched and charred from his magic. When the last fell, he cast one look around the campsite, then dismissed the spirits that had aided them. Those bodies fell as one, like marionettes with their strings cut, and Dorian closed off his connection to the Fade. Exhaustion swept in quickly, making him lean a little heavier on his staff, as he picked his way over the carnage on the blood-soaked ground to Cullen's side.

The lion, Selkor, beat him to it and stood there at the thane's side, ears pricked forward and eyes alert. His tail, tipped at the end with a fluff of that same red and black fur, cut back and forth through the air like a scythe. Dorian eyed the beast warily, but unless his sight was deceiving him, Cullen was leaning against the cat in a way that was worrying.

"I need to look at that wound," he told him, laying a hand on his arm.

The warpaint that covered Cullen's face was streaked with sweat and blood. When he turned his head to look at Dorian, it was difficult to recognize the patterns that had been so crisp and carefully laid out before the fighting began. "We must see to the captives."

Yes, that was true. _Later._ After the immediate problem was dealt with. Dorian's eyes narrowed and his voice grew sharp. "We must see to you first," he snapped, and such was his irritation at Cullen's refusal to do anything sensible that he didn't flinch when the lion turned to regard him with its gleaming eyes. "If you die, you'll be no help to any of them."

Cullen tried feebly to nudge him away with his elbow. "I've suffered worse."

"Be that as it may," Dorian responded, slapping his elbow out of the way. "You're going to cooperate with me or I'll knock you unconscious and tend to it that way."

That was an empty threat and if Cullen was in full possession of his facilities, he would have realized that his injuries prevented such drastic action. But whether it was blood loss or exhaustion or a combination of both, he stood there stubbornly resistant for only a few seconds before reluctantly nodding.

"Here, sit down," Dorian said, guiding him over to a small patch of ground that was covered in neither blood nor bodies.

After Cullen was sitting and the danger of his falling down was removed, Dorian gently urged his hand away from his side. It was a blood-soaked mess, and as the hand was lifted, fresh blood welled up from between the rent flesh. Cullen made no sound. When Dorian glanced up at his face, he thought him somewhat paler beneath all the paint and perhaps he was clenching his jaw, but otherwise, his expression was set in one of stoic calm.

"How bad is the pain?" His eyes narrowed in warning. "And don't tell me there isn't any."

Cullen hesitated for a moment, then looked at him. "Bad. If the battle hadn't ended..." He shook his head, and Dorian felt like perhaps he knew the kind of man Cullen was well enough to read between the lines.

"All right, hold still."

He almost wanted to apologize to Cullen. This wasn’t going to be pretty, he knew, but then, it didn’t need to be. It just needed to stop the bleeding until they could get him to the mage who'd been abducted. _Provided she knows the first thing about healing magic_ , came the dark, unwanted thought.

Brushing the pessimism aside, Dorian held his hand over the wound, so close he was nearly touching it, and reached out with a thin tVestarl of healing magic. He hadn't made an in-depth study of anatomy, he had only a rudimentary understanding of what he encountered as he probed the wound, but he wove a lattice of restorative energy and sunk it into the torn flesh, nudging the edges together and stitching them closed. It took time, and through it, Dorian was dimly aware of the lion leaving its position and the occasional change in the rhythm of Cullen's breathing. The flow of blood draining from the wound slowed to a trickle, then ceased altogether.

"How do you feel now?" he asked quietly after a few minutes, glancing only briefly up at Cullen's face before focusing on his task.

"Better. It's..." From his peripheral vision, it looked as if Cullen was about to move and then thought better of it. "I can fight again."

Dorian sighed. "I'm less worried about that and more concerned with—"

A shrill scream cut him off. As one, they looked in the direction of the sound, Cullen's hand closing around Dorian's wrist to stem the current of magic. He knew what was coming before Cullen said anything and was already drawing back to give him room. The wound wasn't bleeding profusely anymore. If he wasn't planning to engage in vigorous acrobatics or get stabbed again, his patchy healing would hold.

"Come." Cullen heaved himself to his feet and drew his sword. "We must—"

"Try to get ourselves killed again, yes," Dorian grumbled, rising as well. A minor wave of dizziness accompanied the movement and he gripped the staff harder to compensate, refusing to acknowledge the exhaustion. "I can't wait."

It didn't take them long to find the source of the screaming. A short distance away from the main campsite was a thick stand of trees. Bound to five of them were the missing members of Cullen’s clan and lying on the ground was the dying body of another raider. Selkor stood beside the corpse, muzzle still dripping blood.

"That takes care of that, then," Dorian mused, stepping around both the body and the feline to approach the captives.

Two appeared unconscious and three were looking at Cullen with varying degrees of relief and pride. One woman in particular was looking at him with a great deal of admiration. _The missing Gerrid_ , Dorian thought, and deliberately did not care that there was a note of sourness to the realization. Whatever was between her and Cullen was none of his business.

"I knew you would come for us," the woman he assumed was Gerrid exclaimed as they drew nearer. Her gaze flickered once toward him, but after that meager acknowledgement, she seemed to have eyes only for Cullen.

Sheathing his sword, Cullen drew the small knife he'd previously used to slit the guard's throat and knelt beside her to cut through the ropes securing her to the tree. "How badly are you and the others injured?" he asked her, pausing in his task long enough to look her over.

"Kolfin and Bera took blows to the head." From the direction of her gaze as she spoke, Dorian surmised that Kolfin and Bera were the two individuals currently slumped unmoving against their respective trees: the former a man with dark hair shorn at the sides and plaited down along the back of his head and the latter a woman with similarly colored hair worn short and spiky throughout. "They've been unconscious for the last hour, perhaps two. Arrin—"

"A shallow wound across the arm, Thane," a young man with a beard interrupted, thereby identifying himself as Arrin. "Nothing more."

Cullen nodded, then rose to his feet and turned his attention on the last captive. "Saevil?"

The man, old enough to have more than a few streaks of grey in his dark hair, approximated a shrug. "A broken wrist." He glanced toward his unconscious comrades. "It'll keep until Gerrid sets those two to rights."

And of course, there was Gerrid, the damsel in distress that Cullen had heroically come to save. Dorian knew the spitefulness was foolish and tried to tamp it down, but it lingered enough to shadow his opinion as he looked at her: long hair that even in the low light of a dying fire was obviously red, high cheekbones, and clear green eyes. Though he wasn't attracted to her, even Dorian could see—though perhaps not readily admit—that she was beautiful. In fact, she was just the sort of woman who would capture the heart of a valiant thane, if the books and bard's tales were to be believed.

The woman in question was frowning slightly at Saevil. It was a look of disapproval, though the reason for it didn't become clear until she looked at Cullen again. "I've been poisoned."

Cullen drew a sharp breath, twisting around to look at her as he worked on the rope securing Arrin. "What?"

"I'm not familiar with the type," she responded, rubbing at her wrists before moving to the unconscious man and setting to work on untying the knots that bound him. "But it's made me ill and it..." Her lips pursed. "It has separated me from my magic. I cannot hear the gods."

"Magebane." He hadn't intended to say anything; Cullen was busy and the captives were largely ignoring him and he didn't wish to bring scrutiny his way. But he'd always found it difficult to remain quiet when he knew something others did not. Suddenly he found himself the focus of four sets of eyes. "An unpleasant little poison illegal in Tevinter," he elaborated with shrug deliberately crafted to look casual. "So naturally every magister worth his title has at least one vial set aside for parties."

"You know the cure?" Cullen asked before anyone else could get a word in edgewise.

He wasn't going to like this, but Dorian didn't have a better answer. "Time is the only antidote." He looked from Cullen to Gerrid. "You must wait it out. The illness will pass and your mana will return."

She studied him curiously, then looked to Cullen. "Who is he?"

Before Cullen could respond, Dorian snapped, " _He_ is standing right here and is perfectly capable of speaking for himself. Or is common courtesy a foreign concept to you southerners?"

Finished setting Arrin free, Cullen moved to Saevil. "Dorian is a mage from the northern lands."

"Aye, I've heard of you," Arrin piped up as he stretched and got to his feet. To his credit, he at least addressed Dorian directly. "The hunting party brought you in earlier."

"The lowlander?" Saevil's eyebrows rose. "Why did you bring him with you?"

It was almost like dealing with magisters, only infinitely more irritating because they were little more than savages. The tension in Dorian's jaw made his teeth ache, but this time he didn't respond. If they were so bent on talking about him like he wasn't there, he wasn't going to offer them answers they didn't deserve.

"I did not bring him," Cullen responded, standing and shooting Dorian a look that managed to be both respectful and grateful. "He chose to accompany me."

Refusing to be mollified, Dorian sniffed. "Aren't you fortunate that I did? Else you'd be dead and your corpse would probably be feeding your bloodthirsty lion."

Saevil scowled at him, but Cullen laughed as he moved to join Gerrid in freeing Bera. "Selkor does not feed on the dead."

"Eats them alive, does he?" Dorian shot back.

"Ask him yourself," Cullen replied, still smirking, an instant before something large, solid, and wet pushed against Dorian's hand.

Jerking his hand away, Dorian looked down and saw the great beast standing beside him, looking at him with what he could have sworn was amusement. He could feel the eyes of the barbarians on him, less amused and more hostile than Cullen, and refused to flinch away.

"You've no manners either, do you?" he said haughtily, shaking off the blood Selkor's muzzle had gotten on his hand. "One doesn't wipe the blood of one's enemies off on one's allies."

The lion's mouth opened and his tongue lolled out from between his sharp teeth. If Dorian didn't know better—and he did know better; large or small, cats didn't _laugh_ —he would say that he was laughing.

"He honors you with the blood of his kill," Cullen said as he stood once more. Dorian couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

And because he was feeling reckless and piqued by the obvious disapproval of Cullen's people, Dorian slid his fingers through a spatter of blood on his staff and smeared it across the top of Selkor's wide head. "There you are, then. I killed quite a few myself, you know."

The lion made a low, rough noise that sounded like coughing and leaned so heavily against Dorian's side that he nearly stumbled. It was only by jamming his staff blade into the ground and using it as support that he prevented such a clumsy action. One of the barbarians grumbled something in a voice too quiet for Dorian to hear, but there was a peculiar kind of pride in Cullen's expression as he watched the display that negated the vitriol he might've otherwise felt about the continued hostility.

They couldn’t get moving back to the village as long as two of the group remained unconscious, but Dorian wasn’t going to volunteer his mediocre healing skills. Not just because they _were_ mediocre and he didn’t want to give Cullen’s judgmental clanspeople more reason to dislike him, but also because the group was barely civil to someone they’d abducted and still been rescued by. If Cullen wanted him to waste his energy on coaxing the two incapacitated ones to consciousness, he could ask. Otherwise, Dorian was staying on his side of the campfire with the shaggy lion.

Without making it obvious that he was doing it, Dorian watched as Cullen checked on his people. They were busy recovering their weapons from a collection of equipment piled up on one side of the area and Cullen stopped with each one for a few moments’ conversation. Once or twice Dorian noticed a pair of wary eyes flick his way, but Cullen never looked away from their owner. Whatever they were saying about him, Dorian was unable to figure it out. And he thought that maybe that was for the best. After risking his life for the ungrateful bastards who’d _attacked_ and _injured_ him, he wasn’t in the mood to hear about how untrustworthy or less than them he was simply for being from the north.

If there was a parallel to be found here in the way the barbarians looked at him and the way the people of Tevinter would look upon _them_ , Dorian deliberately turned a blind eye toward it. He wasn’t one of the arrogant magisters whose antiquated policies and beliefs were keeping Tevinter from progressing into the modern age. He refused to take responsibility for flaws that weren’t his own. The Maker only knew that he had plenty of those already. He didn’t need to take on more.

The mixture of magebane that had been used on the barbarian shaman had obviously been a potent one. Her magic still hadn’t returned, and from what snippets of conversation he could overhear, she’d been dosed with it before the raiders had carried her off. With the other two still unconscious and one of the men with a broken wrist, it didn’t come as much of a surprise when Cullen finally turned his way and asked if he could do anything to help.

Quelling the impulse to be spiteful and feign exhaustion, which would look just as weak and incompetent to his audience as his healing skills being on the low end of the impressive spectrum, Dorian did a quick, honest inventory of himself and told him that he would do his best.

As it happened, his best turned out to be up to the task of rousing the unconscious warriors and mending Saevil’s broken wrist well enough to ease his pain and make the appendage useful again. The now conscious barbarians were being informed about what had happened by Arrin when Cullen stepped up beside him and laid a hand against the small of his back.

“Are you well?” he asked quietly, voice pitched so low that it barely made it to Dorian’s ear. He didn’t have to wonder if the nosy clanspeople had overheard it.

Perhaps he was holding a bit more tightly than normal to his staff, but Dorian wasn’t about to say so. Not when there was an audience and certainly not to Cullen. He sniffed and glanced sidelong at him. “If you’re asking if I’m getting bored with standing around out here in the middle of nowhere, the answer is yes.”

Undeterred by the misdirection, Cullen replied, “You've had little rest and used a great deal of magic tonight.”

That was starting to sound too much like he thought him too weak to keep up with everybody else. “And what?” Dorian returned, refusing to sound as offended as he was. “Worried you'll have to waste precious resources carrying me back to the village?”

Cullen stubbornly refused to be baited into an argument. “I acquired another vial of lyrium from the augur before we left the hold. Do you need it?”

Dorian looked sharply at him, uncertain whether he wanted to be angry at the assumption that he would need it or impressed by the consideration. Anger won out. He was seeing firsthand how the barbarians viewed him. As their leader, Cullen was no doubt simply making sure that the pathetic lowlander mage didn't screw up the rescue.

“I'm fine,” he answered stiffly, turning his head away and looking intently at the fire. “Give it to your shaman.”

He could feel Cullen looking at him. From his peripheral vision, he could even _see_ him doing it. But Dorian was stubborn too and wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of looking back at him. After a moment that seemed far longer than it truly was, Cullen said softly, “You are angry.”

Was he meant to dignify such an obvious observation with a response? Dorian breathed out hard enough to count as a snort and kept silent.

“Why?”

The largest concession he was willing to make to the continued scrutiny was a narrowing of his eyes. “I’m sure the _thane_ can figure that one out. It shouldn’t be difficult.”

He hadn’t realized that Cullen’s hand was still resting against his back until he felt it move to his shoulder. “We will be returning to the hold shortly. Your help was invaluable, Dorian. I may not have succeeded without you.”

That was probably meant to be a compliment. He almost allowed it to be. But then he remembered how Cullen had gotten stabbed and how he likely wouldn’t have survived the encounter on his own and felt only an irritable kind of resentment. _So afraid to admit you needed my help_ , he thought, resisting allowing his mouth to twist into a scowl. _Typical._

“Thane.” Since it wasn’t Cullen speaking, Dorian didn’t hesitate to glance in the direction of the voice. Beside him, Cullen did the same. It was the man who’d been unconscious. Dorian briefly shuffled through his memory to recall his name. Kolfin. “We’re ready to travel.”

Cullen nodded. Dorian was absolutely positive that it wasn’t his imagination when he felt the man’s hand squeeze his shoulder. “Then let us return. Your families will be pleased to see you.”

* * *

To no one’s great surprise, the families of the missing clanspeople _were_ happy to see them. The sky was beginning to lighten to dawn by the time they returned to the village, and someone must have noticed them coming up the path, because it seemed like the entire settlement turned out to meet them. Dorian had spent the trip walking at the back of the group, occasionally kept company by the lion, who melted into the darkness and reappeared with no discernible pattern, until he had disappeared about half a mile back and never returned.

Dorian had almost been sad to see him go. It was foolish to feel regretful for missing the opportunity to thank an _animal_ for its help and companionship, but all the reasoning in the world didn’t make the faintly uncomfortable emotion go away.

Once they were inside the village proper, Dorian took advantage of the commotion to slip away. With the sky getting lighter every second, it was marginally easier to navigate his way back to the hut he’d stayed in before his rude awakening. He was exhausted and the mere sight of the bed made him long to shuck off his boots and curl up in the warmth of the furs. It was almost painful to deny himself the comfort, especially since he knew he was going to be back to sleeping on hard, rocky ground again, but he resolutely turned away from temptation and checked his pack. Near as he could tell, it had been untouched in his absence and he shouldered it with a silent reprimand to his aching, weary body.

He was a scholar at heart. He wasn’t built to traipse around in the mountains in the middle of the night. If he could ever get headed in the proper direction, he was going to stop at the first inn he found, heritage be damned, and rent a room for at least a week. Possibly two, if the place was clean enough.

Perhaps if his luck decided to hold, he’d find the road to Val Royeaux. The comfort of the luxury of the capital city was worth the aggravation of putting up with crowds of Orlesians. At least for a few weeks. Once they got to be too much to bear, perhaps he’d head to Antiva. Rumor had it that they weren’t hostile to mages there and everyone who’d ever been there said that the weather was excellent. Not to mention that wine was Antiva’s stock and trade.

Dorian spared only a brief glance at the interior of the hut as he made his exit, wanting to make sure that he wasn’t leaving anything behind. When he confirmed that he wasn’t, he turned forward and stepped through the doorway with a lighter, though still not terribly optimistic heart, and ran right into the hard, solid expanse of Cullen’s bare chest.

“You’re leaving?” He sounded, and _looked,_ surprised by that.

Shuffling back half a step to put a little distance between them, Dorian blinked at him in bemusement. What had he thought was going to happen? Dorian would just take off his clothes, roll about in the mud like a dog, and join the tribe? Whether it was because he was too tired to monitor his words or he simply didn’t care anymore, those questions tumbled straight out of his mouth.

“Is that a legitimate question?” At least he kept his voice down. “What did you think I was going to do? Put on a muddy pelt and roll about in the mud with the rest of you?”

The corners of Cullen’s lips compressed slightly. Had he not been staring at him, it was possible that Dorian wouldn’t have even noticed the change in his expression. “We’ve been awake most of the night. I thought you were going to get some rest.”

Dorian arched a skeptical eyebrow. “So you decided to pay me a visit when you thought I’d be sleeping because...?”

Cullen at least had the decency to look faintly abashed. “I meant nothing untoward.” _No, I bet you didn’t_ , came the snide, wholly unproductive thought. “I simply wanted to make certain you had everything you required.”

Hoisting his pack pointedly, Dorian gave him a wide smile. It was too late—or early, depending on how one viewed such things—for it to be real, but having perfected it years ago, he knew it would still look good. “Indeed I do.” He hesitated, then amended with an exaggerated rise of his eyebrows, “Well, I could use a clear path to the gate. It will be rather tiresome to go through you, but I’m certain I can manage.”

It seemed to him that his request was fairly straightforward, but Cullen didn’t get out of his way. In fact, he didn’t even move. “You should at least stay until you’re rested for your journey.”

If only a handsome man had put this much effort into keeping him around in Tevinter. Perhaps he never would have left. It was a little flattering and a lot annoying, because Cullen wasn’t asking him to stay for any reason that was _actually_ flattering. _He’s probably still hoping to sacrifice me to his heathen gods or something equally unpleasant._

“Yes, I’ve heard this all before.” Dorian waved the suggestion away. “Then raiders tried to kill me. I think I’ll find it easier to rest well away from here.”

“That isn’t going to happen again.”

“So you say.”

Cullen sighed, and just for an instant, a strange kind of uncertain indecision surfaced in his eyes. It was a curious sight, but not one that Dorian wanted to pursue. He was getting ready to just shove Cullen out of the way when he stopped waffling and said, “I would rather you stayed.”

Dorian froze, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits as he reached out to the Fade, ready to channel enough power through for a defensive spell or two. “Decided to keep me prisoner, have you?”

Cullen frowned so violently his eyebrows nearly met above his nose. “No. Why would you think—”

“I was abducted from my campsite, beaten, and chained,” Dorian rattled it off in a blasé tone, like he was reading a list of items he intended to purchase from the market. “You people are _far_ from friendly. Keeping captives seems to be a thing you all do. Every time I’ve said I want to leave, you try to find a reason for me to stay.” He rolled his eyes. “If I’m misinterpreting anything here, please _do_ correct my assumption.”

Now he looked exasperated. “I’ve already explained that. And I’m not preventing you from leaving. If that’s what you wish to do, go.” Finally, he stepped sideways out of the way.

So of course, _of course_ , something in Dorian seized up and refused to budge. “Then what _are_ you doing?”

It was a little gratifying to see that Cullen looked halfway to strangling him. “Trying to make things right between us.”

That got him a blank stare. “What?”

Tipping his head to the side, Cullen gave him a look that said he thought he was being obtuse on purpose. “The actions my people took against you were unworthy. They acted on my order, so reparations are mine to make, and I’ve been _trying_ —” That came out with an undercurrent of a growl that made Dorian’s stomach twist and he immediately told himself sternly, _From his breath_. _We’re much too close to be speaking like this_. “—to do that, but you aren’t making it easy for me.”

Dorian laughed in his face. “Should I? I still wear the bruises from your people, _Thane_.”

“I did not mean it like that, as you well know.”    

Another chuckle escaped him. “No?”

Cullen looked him over for a moment, then drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. They were marvelous shoulders. Dorian pretended that he hadn’t just noted that. “May the Lady of the Skies guide your path, Dorian Pavus,” he said formally, with all the finality of a goodbye.

Before Dorian could say anything in response, he turned on his heel and walked away. For a few minutes, Dorian watched him go, chewing absently on the inside of his mouth. _Don’t do it,_ he told himself. _Don’t you dare. This is what you want. Now take the opportunity and go before you get caught up in another mess._

But his legs weren’t moving. _He_ wasn’t moving. He was just standing there like a fool, watching the—admittedly pleasing—sight of Cullen’s back recede into the distance. And then he _was_ moving, but not in the direction of the gate. No, he was following the bastard and hating himself for it every step of the way.

Not quite as much as he hated himself for calling out to him once he’d reached him, however. “Cullen.”

Dorian didn’t know whether Cullen heard him coming after him, but he demonstrated more maturity than Dorian likely would have if their circumstances had been reversed by stopping and turning to face him. “What is it?”

For a moment, Dorian said nothing and simply studied him. Cullen didn’t press him for an answer, instead standing still for the duration of the scrutiny. Dorian took a deep breath, realized there was no help for it, and let it out in a rush.

“Did you mean it?” he asked quietly. 

The forbidding lines of Cullen’s face softened into a small smile. “On my honor and as the gods are my witness, I will neither bring you harm nor force you to remain against your will.”

“Fine,” Dorian said gracelessly. “I’ll stay.” He flicked a finger in Cullen’s direction. “But _only_ until I’m rested enough to travel.”


	2. Part Two

“So you _stayed_?”

Dorian winced, thankful that the magic powering the sending crystal was only keyed to sound. There were days when he wished it were otherwise; speaking with his oldest and best friend was a pleasure, to be sure, though sometimes he wanted to _see_ him too. But right now, he was glad for it. This way, Felix couldn’t see the guilty shame that passed across his face. If they’d been facing one another, he would have. Felix was extraordinarily observant when Dorian didn’t want him to be.

“Well,” he replied casually, trying to play it off as nothing. “It wasn’t truly as if I’d anywhere else to go.”

Felix wasn’t going to be assuaged by that lame defense and Dorian knew it. So it didn’t come as a surprise when he heard him snort. “With the people who captured you?”

Clicking his tongue in mock disapproval, Dorian needlessly shook his head. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“ _Dorian!_ ”

He could admit he deserved that. Still, it was entertaining to rile Felix up. He couldn’t do it often, otherwise his friend would get stubborn and refuse to react, but every once in a while, an exasperatingly needling comment could provoke a reaction. And they hadn’t seen each other in months. Nearly half a year! He thought he could be forgiven his minor, thoroughly harmless indulgences.

Not wanting Felix to get too fed up and end the conversation prematurely, Dorian decided to make an offer of truce. “I...” Admitting he’d been wrong was always such a chore. Even with Felix, though he wasn’t sure quite why. The younger man had witnessed him being wrong so many times in the past that he’d become desensitized to the shame of it. “...might have judged the Avvar too harshly.”

Felix wasn’t convinced. Even if he hadn’t known him as well as he did, the silence that followed his admission communicated that well enough. Finally, Felix sighed. “None of this is reassuring. Surely you realize that.”

No, he could imagine that it wasn’t. To hear it, and to know _him_ , he was sure that it sounded mad. Or that he was being held against his will. A year ago, if he’d been told that one day he’d willingly be living in the frozen reaches of the south with a bunch of barbarians, he would have laughed himself sick. Some days, he still woke up in his crude little hut and couldn’t believe that he was really here. And he’d been living it for months!

It must sound insane to Felix.

“They aren’t holding me here,” Dorian told him softly, serious. One of his hands carded absently through the furs on his bed, upon which he was comfortably sprawled, his shoulders and head propped up by a pile of pillows and balled up extra furs. “I’ve been free to go this entire time. I think Cullen would even help me pack to leave if I asked.”

There was a judgmental silence practically _thrumming_ through the crystal. Dorian eyed it for a moment, knowing that Felix would be able to accurately guess at his expression. “What?” he asked, after the silence had dragged on much too long.

“Tell me that you aren’t staying because you’re infatuated with him.”

The difference between Felix and everyone else in Tevinter was that if such a request had been voiced by anyone else, Dorian would have gotten offended by the disapproval and disappointment that would be permeating it. But Felix wasn’t judging him for his preferences. Felix was concerned. It was there in every inflection on every word and in the shifting tone of his voice.

“Does it really matter why I’m staying? I’ve nowhere to go no matter what my reasons are.”

“I thought you wanted to go to Antiva.”

Dorian sniffed. “Some day, perhaps. The weather is probably lovely this time of year.”

This time, Felix’s sigh was so heavy that he almost thought it odd that he couldn’t feel the rush of exhaled air across his skin. When he didn’t follow it up with anything condemning or argumentative, Dorian frowned and did his work for him. No doubt as Felix knew he would.

“It isn’t like that.” And his voice _wasn’t_ the least bit petulant. If Felix thought that it was, then he was incredibly wrong.

It didn’t sound like Felix bought it, but at least his tone was patient when he asked, “What is it like, then?”

“Cullen’s a good man,” Dorian began, only to be interrupted.

“Right,” came Felix’s sarcastic voice.

“It’s true!” Cullen was a good man and a remarkably handsome one, but despite what Felix assumed—and given his lifestyle in Tevinter, he couldn’t blame him in the slightest—that truly wasn’t why Dorian was staying. “They’re all a little odd, yes, and I dream quite frequently about a proper bath, but...”

When he trailed off, Felix didn’t interrupt him. He didn’t say anything at all. Dorian thought that perhaps the explanation wasn’t necessary. Perhaps Felix understood and was simply heckling him because he could. But even if that was the case, and considering their relationship it was certainly the most likely scenario, he thought he still probably owed it to him to give him a real answer.

Not many people were privy to Dorian’s innermost thoughts and Felix treated his place at the top of that list like it was a position of honor. Being honest was hardly too high a price to pay to make Felix happy.

“They welcomed me, Felix,” he finally said. His voice wasn’t laden with sentimentality, but he knew that it didn’t need to be. Felix would understand how important that welcome was to him. “Yes, it was a little rocky at first and it took two weeks before I stopped waiting for someone to attack me when I walked alone through the hold, but once we got used to each other, the dirty looks stopped.”

After a pause, Felix asked lightly, “So they’ve accepted you into their clan? Are you wearing animal skins and painting yourself with mud now too?”

Dorian laughed. “Maker, no. I haven’t taken leave of my senses.”

“That’s debatable.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. It isn’t as dramatic as you’re making it out to be.”

“ _Me_?” Felix’s voice rose until it was almost a squawk. “ _I’m_ not the one cavorting about the south with demonic lions!”

“I’ve never _cavorted_ ,” Dorian replied indignantly. “And Selkor isn’t an abomination. He’s just...”

* * *

“Tell me again where we’re going?”

Even though it was approaching mid-afternoon, as far as Dorian’s meager amount of sleep went, it was too early for this. He was still tired after his long night slogging through the forest after Cullen’s missing clanspeople and to be woken up before he was ready by the man in question seemed to fly in the face of his assurance that he wasn’t trying to keep him there.

“Selkor wished to meet with you,” Cullen answered, looking infuriatingly fresh and chipper for someone who’d been stabbed the night before and probably got even less sleep than Dorian had.

“This is still the lion, correct?” With these people, one could never be too certain about anything. “Or is there actually a man named Selkor around here somewhere to dispel the notion that you’re insane for thinking you’re holding conversations _with a lion_?”

In his ongoing effort to provoke the man, Dorian once again failed. Cullen just smiled in a way that had the audacity to look pitying. Pity! From a bloody savage! “There is only one Selkor, Dorian.”

Sighing in disgust, Dorian shook his head and focused on trudging along what was turning out to be a seemingly endless path. “And where does the beast live? The top of the blighted mountain?”

“It isn’t much further.” Cullen shot him a curious look. “Did you not sleep well?”

Dorian _almost_ stopped dead, though at the last second, he channeled his irritation into a glare. “Perhaps I might have, if you hadn’t barged into my hut and woke me up.”

“Turn in early tonight,” Cullen suggested with an unconcerned shrug.

“Yes, and then you’ll have some other reason for waking me, won’t you?”

That accusation netted him a sigh. At least he wasn’t completely losing his touch. “Dorian, I’ve told you that—”

Huffing, Dorian waved him silent. “Yes, yes. I’ve heard this all before. Numerous times.”

“Because you keep making the same accusations.”

“Change your behavior and perhaps I’ll have reason to stop. Otherwise, the proof is against you, oh infallible thane.”

Cullen just looked at him. “I never claimed to be infallible.”

“No? Hmm. Your people certainly seem to act like you are.”

It was with genuine amusement that Cullen began to laugh. “Is that how it looks to you?”

Dorian frowned at him. “Do you barbarians view the world in some way unlike the rest of us?”

“Avvar,” he replied, which hardly answered the question. “We are Avvar, not barbarians.”

Clearing his throat, Dorian pointed to the fur-lined loincloth that Cullen again was wearing. Sans trousers, this time, and every now and again, if he happened to look sideways at the right time, he caught a glimpse of the side of his well-muscled ass. He tried not to look. As a child, he’d also once tried not to breathe to see what would happen. This experiment fared no better.

Glancing down, Cullen looked blankly at the front of himself for a moment before he realized what Dorian was trying to say. “The mountain is harsh,” he told him as he shifted his attention back to him. “Have you not noticed? Fur keeps us warm.”

“So do trousers, but unlike civilized people, you don’t seem to like wearing those.”

Very deliberately, Cullen looked him up and down. It was the kind of assessing stare that, in other places in different circumstances with someone else, would have likely led to a quick fumble in a dark corner. Dragging his gaze back up, Cullen’s eyes met his and of course, the sunlight had to catch them and make the irises burn like molten gold. “Do your trousers keep you warm here, Dorian?”

The low tone and the slow way he said it made Dorian’s heartbeat kick up a notch. He swallowed, absently wetting his lips. “Not particularly, no.”

A smug smirk curved Cullen’s mouth and Dorian found his eyes drawn to the scar that marred the right side. “Then perhaps you ought not to judge our ways until you’ve tried them.”

Was Cullen flirting with him? It was difficult to tell. What he was saying wasn’t necessarily flirtatious. In fact, if Dorian stripped away the way he was looking at him and his tone of voice, there wasn’t anything even remotely questionable about it. But the look and the voice were factors that were impossible to ignore. Either Cullen had no idea how to talk to people without it seeming like a come-on or he had no idea what he was doing. The former might be possible, but Dorian doubted the latter; Cullen seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

From the conflicting signals Dorian had observed with him, it was still too early in their acquaintance to tell. _And it doesn’t matter anyway_ , he reminded himself. _He’s a barbarian. Avvar. Whatever. And you’re leaving. Clearly not today, but you_ are _leaving before the week’s out. And the Maker only knows where he’s been. No wild, raw night of unbridled lust is worth the risk of coming away from it with lice._

Though it would be intriguing. A man like Cullen, obviously strong and stubborn, would probably make a fascinating lover. He would probably be as savage in passion as he was in a fight. And as strong as he was, he could probably— _Lice!_ Dorian told himself firmly, feeling his blood start to heat at the mental images he was conjuring. _A lot of lice!_

Blissfully unaware of Dorian’s internal struggle, Cullen nodded toward a cave worn into the side of the mountain a short distance away. “Selkor waits within.”

As unenthused as he was about this “meeting”—he had visions of Cullen speaking to the beast as though it could hold an actual conversation and being forced to either nod along like a credulous fool or simply call the man out on his delusion—it had the benefit of giving himself something to do that wasn’t fantasize about the myriad ways they might better utilize their time. So steeling himself for a tedious few minutes during which he was determined to do his best not to laugh, Dorian trudged along after Cullen into the cave.

He expected it to be small and dirty. In actuality, the ceiling was high enough that he could have held his hand over his head and not brushed up against it. In addition there was no more dirt, spider webs, forest-related debris, or bones and carcasses of the lion’s latest kills than there was in Cullen’s bizarre little throne…cave. Which was to say, none. Either the lion was clean to an anal and fussy degree, or someone took the time to clean it. Dorian wasn’t sure if that made the barbarians as a whole insane or just really in love with their animals.

The animal in question was lying at the back of the cave, sprawled out and seemingly asleep on a huge, fluffy white fur. Dorian couldn’t determine simply from looking what kind of animal it was and surmised that it was either something from the south he’d never heard of or some kind of barbarian mutation that only appeared here in the mountains. He idly wondered if the lion had killed the creature or if this was a gift from someone in the clan.

“It looks like he’s asleep,” Dorian murmured to Cullen. “Perhaps we ought to come back later.” _Or never,_ he wanted to add but exercised the restraint not to do so.

Cullen ignored him. “Selkor,” he called, barely raising his voice at all. “I’ve brought Dorian to see you.”

_As if the animal knows my name_ , Dorian thought, rolling his eyes. Then he blinked as the lion’s eyes opened and looked directly at him. It was a little uncanny, but before he could catch Cullen’s lunacy and get carried away, he reminded himself that it was probably just a coincidence that Selkor had happened to look his way. There were only two of them, after all, and they’d both been making noise as they walked. Selkor had to look at one of them. The odds were even it would be him.

Dorian looked at the lion. The lion looked at Dorian. And after a moment, he felt the weight of an additional set of eyes and glanced sideways to see Cullen looking at him expectantly. _Maker’s balls, am I supposed to say something?_

No help was forthcoming from Cullen. After a moment, Dorian sighed and said, “Yes, here I am. Hooray me. I’m sure this has simply made your day.”

Openly insulting Cullen never seemed to get much of a response out of him, but mocking the lion won Dorian a scowl of disapproval. He couldn’t understand it. Upon further reflection, he decided that he probably didn’t want to understand it either.

“A little respect would not be remiss,” Cullen told him reprovingly.

Deciding that the farce had gone on long enough, Dorian turned his gaze fully on Cullen. “I’m not trying to insult your lion, Cullen. But he’s an animal. Not a human. He can’t actually understand what we’re saying.”

It was stupid that watching Cullen’s expression go from disapproving to disappointed managed to make him feel chastised, but the shame curled insidiously through him anyway, like he’d done something egregious instead of pointing out the truth. It made him defensive, and defensiveness had a tendency to morph into biting sarcasm far too easily.

“The augur assured me that you would be able to speak with the gods,” Cullen said, sounding a little too much like he had failed a simple task.

“Then your augur must be as crazy as you,” Dorian shot back.

“But you’re a mage.”

“So?” Brow furrowed in consternation, Dorian frowned at him. “I don’t know what you’re heard about Tevinter mages, but no one’s _actually_ spoken to an Old God since before the First Blight.”

Cullen was the one acting like it was possible to hold a conversation with a lion, yet _he_ was staring at Dorian as though he was an incompetent idiot. “Our shamans speak with the gods all the time. I was told that lowlanders can do it too.”

“Look, just because someone says that they’re talking to a god doesn’t mean—” Abruptly, Dorian’s mouth snapped shut as what Cullen was imprecisely saying finally registered. _Mages_ were speaking to things that the barbarians thought were gods. And the only thing that mages could speak with that ordinary people couldn’t were creatures from the Fade. Spirits and demons.

Spinning around so fast that he nearly made himself dizzy, Dorian stared at the lion with a disconcerting combination of disbelief, surprise, and just a tiny bit of horror. “Are you telling me that’s an abomination?”

It was one thing for a demon to possess a human or an elf. Or theoretically a Qunari, though Dorian had never heard any accounts of such a thing happening. It was quite another to encounter an animal that carried a demon within it.

“Of course not!” Cullen said sharply. “Selkor harbors no demon.”

He glanced back to Cullen. “Then what _are_ you saying?” he demanded impatiently.

“A hold-beast is no ordinary animal. They are chosen by the gods to aid the hold.”

Which was interesting, certainly, but it didn’t answer his question and it didn’t explain why Cullen had insinuated that the lion was possessed.

“And the demons come into it where?”

“There are no demons,” Cullen insisted.

“Then what am I meant to be communicating with?” Like he was suddenly gifted with the ability to see the future, Dorian knew precisely how Cullen would answer him. Lifting up his hand to forestall him, he added quickly, “And don’t give me that gods nonsense. Speak plainly. Despite the mud, I know you’re capable of it.”

Cullen was scowling mulishly at him, but Dorian wasn’t about to let him off the hook. Eventually, after a glance at Selkor, who was watching the exchange with a worryingly cognizant kind of interest, he finally started to talk. “You would be better served asking the augur these questions.”

“The augur isn’t here. You are,” Dorian pointed out. “And you’re the thane of the hold, or so everybody keeps telling me. I assume that means you know more than the average person about what’s going on in the hold.”

“I am no shaman,” Cullen responded. “I cannot speak to him as the augur can. But he is both the red lion you see before you and a vessel for one of the gods. If you’ve the ability to hear him, he will speak to you.”

After a long, skeptical look at Cullen, Dorian regarded Selkor. It sounded even more like possession now. Which meant that these fools were revering a demon. Pride, perhaps? It fought like a rage demon, but it was calmer than he would expect a rage demon confronting someone who saw through its ploys to be. He could rule out a desire demon easily enough, and after a brief moment, sloth as well. It looked lazy now, but it hadn’t been last night.

Having been trained _not_ to willingly make contact with demons, Dorian was a bit reluctant to do so now. Even with Cullen standing by like some kind of scantily-clad templar, he doubted the wisdom of opening himself up to anything of the sort. But it wouldn’t be his first encounter with a demon either. He’d met them before, in the living world and in the Fade, and he’d survived those that had attempted to kill him and bested those that had tried to manipulate him. More than likely, he would be all right here too.

Carefully, he established a connection with the Fade. He didn’t draw power in or attempt to warp the Veil; he simply reached through it so that he had an active link. Like whispering at the very edge of his hearing, he could sense the presence of the creatures nearest him. None attempted to approach him directly, but he could tell that they—spirits or demons, it was impossible at this distance to discern the difference—were aware of him.

How to effectively communicate with whatever was currently residing in the lion, however, was something of a mystery. Dorian was accustomed to demons speaking with the voices of whichever poor fool had erroneously decided to allow possession to occur, if encountered in the real world, or with the approximation of whatever they chose to use in the Fade. Trying to speak with something that had chosen an animal that was only capable of unintelligible noises seemed impossible. And ridiculous. If Cullen thought he was going to growl and roar and make a series of undignified sounds at the lion, he was in for a terribly rude awakening.

It started as a faint prickle, like a cool breeze blowing gently over his skin and lifting the hairs on his forearms. Because he was connected to the Fade, he knew that it wasn’t simply his imagination. Something had taken an interest in him specifically and its awareness was drawing nearer. A sideways glance at Cullen revealed that he had no idea what was happening and was merely looking at both Dorian and Selkor, waiting for the conversation to start.

The prickling sensation intensified and Dorian tensed, ready to fend off whatever attack might come.

_“Be at ease.”_ It was a cool whisper, not unlike the breeze he’d imagined, sensed more than heard. _“I mean you no harm.”_

He cast an uncertain look at the lion, which was watching him, but wasn’t watching any more intently than it had been a moment ago. _“What are you?”_ he ventured.

“ _In your world, I am called Selkor. In the Fade, names are meaningless.”_

It was beyond strange to be doing this in front of Cullen, like reverse eavesdropping, and even though he’d been brought here to evidently do this, Dorian still felt a little rude to be conversing with someone—some _thing_ —like this when he was none the wiser.

“ _I gather you aren’t actually a lion,”_ Dorian returned dryly.

_“If you are asking if I’m a demon, the answer is no. Your kind would call me a spirit.”_

It was a more informative answer than he’d gotten from Cullen. _“And what kind of spirit are you? A spirit of hairy beasts? The hunt? Something a little more uncivilized?”_

Selkor yawned, his great maw opening wide, and Dorian caught a glimpse of all of his very sharp teeth. _“I am what they need me to be. Loyal and strong, as they are. Courageous and fearsome, as they are.”_

_“So you’re, what? A guardian spirit?”_ He’d never heard of such a thing.

_“If you like to think of me as such, it would not be wholly inaccurate.”_

So far, so good. If there was a catch here, something the spirit wanted, Dorian couldn’t figure out what it was. But it had made no offers or threats, which already made it a significantly better encounter than any other he’d had with others of its ilk.

_“Cullen said you wanted to see me.”_ It wouldn’t hurt to get to the point. _“Why?”_

_“There is much one can tell from those one hunts beside, but there is just as much that remains hidden. I would know the one who offers aid when he has little reason to do so.”_

Lions didn’t have the same expressions humans did. Dorian knew this, yet still found himself trying to read emotion in Selkor’s face. It was an automatic reaction, even when he caught himself doing it, he couldn’t quite succeed in his attempts to stop. But there was something there, something in the sense that came along with the whispery not-quite voice more than anything physical that his eyes noticed.

_“You’re worried I mean the barbarians harm, aren’t you?”_ It was a hunch, but one Dorian was willing to bet was right.

_“We have watched over the clan through many generations. We would not see it perish now.”_

Guardian spirit indeed. It was quite fascinating, truth be told. This was a side of spirits that Dorian had never expected to encounter. Though to be fair, encountering spirits at all was frowned upon. Too easily it turned into a slippery slope at the bottom of which lay only possession and death. Still, some part of Dorian thrilled at what he was doing. To think what he could learn from something like this, something ancient and cognizant enough to carry on a conversation and perhaps impart some of its knowledge.

_“I don’t mean anyone harm,”_ he assured it. He couldn’t say that he was harmless; Dorian _wasn’t_ harmless. But as long as no one took a turn at clouting him upside the head, or worse, he didn’t intend to hurt any of Cullen’s people. _“I wouldn’t even still be here if it wasn’t for Cullen. He’s the one who keeps making excuses for why I can’t leave.”_

As if he heard him say his name, Cullen smiled. “I told you.”

Dorian broke eye contact with Selkor to shoot him a curious look. “Sorry?”

“Selkor isn’t a demon.”

Knowing full well that Cullen wasn’t one to provide a straight answer when anything else would do, Dorian couldn’t prevent himself from asking, “How do you even know I’m speaking with him?”

Cullen just looked at him. “You’ve been silent too long.” Dorian was opening his mouth to retaliate with something unflattering about Cullen’s speaking habits, when he continued, effectively cutting him off. “And I’ve witnessed the augur speaking with the gods. It lacks the appropriate rituals, but your expression is the same.”

He wasn’t sure if he was being mocked or not. “What expression?”

“Like you’re far away and listening to something I cannot hear.”

Not a critique, then. Dorian conceded the point with a nod. “I am. Talking to him, I mean.” The thrill of discovery made it easy to let his irritation with Cullen’s lackluster conversational skills fade. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smile. “It’s actually quite fascinating. I can’t say I’ve ever spoken to a spirit like this before.”

“You may have as many opportunities to repeat it as you’d like,” Cullen told him.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you trying to bribe me into staying here now?”

Cullen held up a placating hand. “I simply mean that you are blood brothers now. You may visit him freely, the same as any member of the hold.”

That sounded even more suspicious than the invitation to explore the novelty of speaking with a benevolent—more than likely, at any rate; thus far, nothing about it seemed malicious—spirit. “What do you mean, blood brothers?”

“You fought together and bathed in the blood of your kills,” Cullen explained, his tone that of man who thought what he was saying was perfectly reasonable. “As is custom, you are now sworn brothers in arms.”

It was rather like he was in a dream, watching a surreal drama unfold and wholly unable to intercede. “Brothers in arms. With a lion. Me.” Perhaps laying out the points would help Cullen see how completely foolish such a notion truly was.

_“In the hold, all fight as one,”_ came Selkor’s unexpected contribution to the conversation.

_“You’ve got to be joking,_ ” Dorian returned, then for Cullen’s benefit, repeated the sentiment out loud.

“It is a great honor,” Cullen told him, obviously seeing nothing wrong with any of it. And once again, Dorian caught a hint of that pride he’d seen the night before. As if he was _happy_ that a random mage from half a world away had formed some kind of bizarre bond with his spirit-possessed lion.

_What is wrong with these people?_ Dorian thought, not for the first time and, as he would eventually discover, not nearly the last.

“You’re so odd,” he heard himself saying. Then, because he was perfectly willing to commit to the declaration, Dorian included Selkor in his assessment. “Both of you.”

Like thane, like lion, evidently, because neither Cullen nor Selkor seemed the least bit offended.

* * *

"Possessed," Felix cut in. "Don't play semantics with me."

Dorian sighed. "Yes, but it's true. It's different here. They speak with the spirits as part of their daily life. They actually invite them into their lives. It's fascinating to observe."

Wary suspicion practically dripped from Felix's voice. "How many have you invited into yours?"

"None!" The slightly scandalized tone wasn't affected. While the Avvar lifestyle was an interesting puzzle that he couldn't deny he wished to study, Dorian wasn't about to go native and start having regular chats with spirits. Speaking with Selkor was strange enough. "They've been doing it for centuries, Felix. They've all sorts of safeguards and rituals to deal with demons. I've watched them, yes, but I haven't participated."

Then, in the hopes of driving the point home, he added in a darker, weightier tone, "I rather like my mind the way it is."

They hadn't spoken of his father's attempt to alter him with blood magic since it happened and Dorian wasn't looking to broach the subject now. A gentle reminder was all he was after, and when Felix didn't pursue his lecture on the dangers of spirits and Dorian's curiosity, he knew that it had worked.

"All right," Felix said, his voice adopting the airy casualness it always did whenever he changed the subject away from something Dorian didn't want to discuss. "Tell me about him."

"Who?" He was only half-playing dumb. Felix could have meant Selkor or the augur, whose name Dorian had discovered was Vestar, or Cullen.

He could _hear_ Felix rolling his eyes. "The barbarian king, of course. I know you're beside yourself to do it."

Dorian feigned a shocked gasp. "I'm sure I have _no_ idea what you're implying."

"You've only mentioned how handsome he is about two dozen times," Felix said dryly.

"Well, he _is_ ," Dorian muttered defensively.

"So?" Felix prompted. "I've got about an hour until I have to have supper with Father. You might as well tell me before you burst."

* * *

"Be still my beating heart!" Dorian exclaimed in mock astonishment, clapping on hand over his heart as though he was suffering from an attack, as Cullen emerged from the hut that served as the thane’s dwelling.

For an instant, Cullen paused, looking at him uncertainly, before continuing on as if he hadn’t just hesitated to set his foot down. "What?" he asked, confused.

Dorian pointed at him like he'd grown a second head overnight. "Are those _trousers_?"

Up until that moment, Cullen appeared to be taking his surprise seriously. Now, he made a noise of disgust and shook his head, moving a bit faster down the path as though he could outrun him. Considering they were heading out to check on one of the clan's fishermen who hadn't stopped in at the hold for a while, there really wasn't any way for Cullen to get away from him.

"I've worn them in your presence before this day," Cullen said, in the weary resignation of a man who knew there was no winning the battle but was unable to break the habit of trying.

Happy to remind him why he shouldn't bother, Dorian looked him over thoughtfully, knuckling his chin to show that he was taking this matter extremely seriously. "I'm not so certain," he replied slowly, frowning as though the effort to remember whether what Cullen said was true was excruciatingly difficult to muster. "I think I'd remember an obstructed view of your ass."

The look Cullen shot him was withering. "Perhaps you shouldn't look if you find the sight so distasteful."

_Quite the opposite_ , Dorian thought immediately, though he wasn't going to be that obviously appreciative when Cullen was glowering at him so severely. "It's rather hard to miss," he said primly. "The way you let it hang out so often."

After two weeks in his company, Cullen was perfecting the art of the long-suffering sigh. There were nuances to them, Dorian was delighted to discover, and this one wasn't huffy enough to suggest that he'd lost his patience with him yet. "You speak as if I intend to flaunt myself. I assure you, I do not."

"Hm," Dorian hummed a note of false consideration. "I wonder. Tell me, do you even own a shirt?"

He glanced over just in time to see Cullen glance at him out of the corner of his eye, his expression beginning the slow slide toward annoyance. "Why does my attire obsess you so?"

Dorian gave him a critical look, it started out centered on his bare chest and eventually panned pointedly outward to take in the snow-covered mountains, one of which oh so conveniently served as the home of Red-Lion Hold. Cullen stubbornly returned the look with a blank, falsely uncomprehending stare of his own.

"I simply don't understand how you can go around wearing so little and not freeze," he elaborated, feeling that the loss of the point in Cullen's favor was worth the fact that he could no longer feign cluelessness about what Dorian was trying to say.

The blankness sharpened to thoughtfulness, which was something, although whether the reaction was encouraging or discouraging remained to be seen. “Would you like to?”

In context, Dorian supposed that it made a modicum of sense. However, the _context_ didn’t make much sense, so he was rather at a loss. “I beg your pardon?” He hadn’t even been born in the south, much less raised in such a harsh lifestyle as the one the Avvar apparently preferred. Without experiencing lifelong conditioning to this particular environment, he couldn’t really understand it.

Sensing a possible end to the needling, Cullen’s patience reasserted itself. “Would you like to understand how I can wear what I do without complaining about the cold as you do?”

That sounded like a slight. Dorian almost wanted to say no just because he didn’t like the comparison, true though it was. But in the end, curiosity won over the impulse to be difficult. “Yes, I think I would.”

Cullen nodded, looking pleased. “When we return to the hold, I will show you.”

That sounded like some sort of barbarian ritual was involved. As they continued down toward the base of the mountain, Dorian mused over what that must entail. Running naked into snow drifts? If Cullen was of a mind to show him that, he wasn’t going to complain. Or perhaps it would be something a bit less titillating. A few minutes in meditation, possibly, or a very stiff drink? Maybe a potion mixed up by the Vestar to deaden one’s senses? It would certainly explain how Cullen could keep fighting so fiercely even when he was injured if that were the case.

It was the sensible, appropriately barbaric solution to the mystery. Dorian was prepared for that to be the case. But he couldn’t help holding out for the naked rolling about in the snow. That would make his continued presence at the hold _so_ worth it.

“Dorian?”

Pulled from his increasingly inappropriate thoughts, Dorian turned to see Cullen looking at him with the sort of anticipatory expression that said that he’d been trying to get his attention for some time. “What?” Not the suavest response, but it was the best Dorian could come up with in the moment.

“Are you all right?” That wasn’t what Cullen had been asking. He had the look of a man whose direction of thought had been disrupted.

“Hm? Oh yes,” Dorian waved away the question with a careless flap of his hand. “Just thinking about weighty magical matters. I’d explain, but you aren’t a mage. I doubt you’d understand.”

Either Cullen hadn’t intended to pursue it or Dorian’s backhanded attempt to insult him into changing the subject had worked. He liked to think it was the latter, he was ever so proud of his ability to be a source of aggravation, but knowing Cullen, it was the former. He nodded, then pointed to the left and said mildly, “Mind your step.

Dorian glanced to the side without any real sense of urgency. Cullen hadn’t sounded alarmed; he wasn’t expecting to see anything dangerous. What he saw made him jerk sideways with a hiss.

Lost in thought and not paying attention to where he’d been walking, he’d drifted far too close to the edge of the path. One side was bordered by the uneven stone of the mountainside. The other dropped away into a densely forested valley some couple hundred feet below them. Heart racing at how close he’d come to blithely strolling right over the side, Dorian shot Cullen an accusing glare.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

Cullen appeared untroubled by both his ire and his close call with an unpleasant demise. “I did. Twice.”

“Try harder next time!”

"The mountain is treacherous to the unwary,” Cullen told him in a tone that barely avoided being lecturing. “It would do you well to respect it. If I were not here—”

“Then I wouldn’t be either,” Dorian returned snappishly, unsettled and disliking that he was. It didn’t help that Cullen had almost been witness to his blunder.

He wasn’t trying to pin the blame on him, but Cullen nodded and didn’t pursue the topic further than a neutral, “As you say.”

It _had_ been his fault, not Cullen’s, and he didn’t enjoy the idea that Cullen was internalizing the responsibility for this. That was one of the first things he’d learned about the man. Cullen took his responsibilities _very_ seriously and was quite attentive to seeing that they were carried out in a thorough manner. Early on, he realized that Cullen took responsibility for his presence in the hold. Not, as Dorian liked to accuse him whenever he was feeling querulous, because he kept finding reasons to prolong Dorian’s stay that Dorian couldn’t ever manage to argue against, but because his warriors had been the one to apprehend him in the first place.

In light of that admirable, but unnecessary mindset, it was easy to imagine him latching onto the notion that his negligence had nearly gotten Dorian killed and utterly disregarding that it was Dorian’s responsibility to look out for himself in unfamiliar territory. It was fun to antagonize him, because Cullen gave back as good as he received when he was finally provoked, but it wasn’t fair to burden him with guilt.

“So,” Dorian said casually, breaking the silence with a nonchalant air. “Tell me about you.”

Cullen looked at him, his expression difficult to read. “What would you know?”

Persistence was the key with reticent people, Dorian knew. And as the old Tevinter proverb claimed, it was its own reward. “You weren’t born the thane of this clan, were you?” He thought he understand _that_ much about Avvar culture.

Apparently it was the right question to ask. Quite unexpectedly, it broke the tension: Cullen laughed, a low, dry sound. “No, I was not. The position is not inherited. When a new thane is needed, the Elders of the hold meet and decide who is best able to fulfill the role.”

Red-Lion Hold was a large place. There were dozens of warriors who, between their weapons and their exaggerated warpaint, looked much fiercer than Cullen. To have been chosen from among them all seemed, even to one as ignorant of the clan’s beliefs and customs as Dorian, like a great honor. What that meant for the man Cullen was, Dorian was exceedingly curious to learn.

Perhaps he could ask him outright, but he’d yet to hear Cullen speak of himself with arrogance. He was honest, he didn’t downplay his strengths, but he didn’t boast about them either. And Dorian thought he would have made a prime receptacle for such exaggeration. He wouldn’t know fact from fiction and would more than likely be impressed with whatever imaginary feats Cullen told him about without being aware that they were a lie. Yet Cullen never spoke about himself without sufficient prodding and prompting, and what little Dorian had been able to learn that hadn’t come from him, he’d had to ask or overhear it from one of the other clanspeople.

No, if he wanted information, he was going to have to approach it obliquely and put the pieces together himself. Happily, he rather enjoyed a challenging puzzle.

"What did you do, then? Before you were thane?"

Cullen wasn't looking at him, his attention on the path ahead and wherever they were going, but Dorian saw the side of his mouth turn upward in a smile. "I was a Stone Guardian."

Whatever that was. Dorian hadn't a clue, but from the way Cullen said it, it meant a great deal to him. It was honestly a shame he had to ask for clarification. He would have liked to express something more positive than confusion over the role, if only because it would have probably made Cullen happy.

"You say that like I know what it means," he reminded him, though he made certain to keep his voice gently teasing instead of sarcastic.

The effort was worth it. Cullen glanced sideways and gave him a bright, albeit tiny, smile that nearly took Dorian's breath away for the way it lit up his face. "I was one of the protectors of the hold," he explained. "Sky Guardians travel the land, protecting the hold's borders and going beyond them when the hold's interests require them to visit other lands. A Stone Guardian remains in the hold."

It wasn't such a foreign concept. "Sort of like palace guards?"

Cullen nodded. "Aye. Many Stone Guardians are responsible for protecting a specific person, like the thane or the augur, or an artifact of great importance if the hold possesses such a thing."

"And that was you? The one who protected the thane?"

"No. Everything was mine to protect." From the way he spoke of it, Dorian had the distinct impression that that hadn't been Cullen's original assignment, but that he’d appropriated the responsibility for everyone with time and bull-headed stubbornness.

"Why did that change?"

"The clan has long been rivals with Wolfhold. They wish to possess our lands, but they were given to us by the Lady of the Skies herself. They are _our_ lands." Cullen's eyes had narrowed slightly as he spoke, and a low, forbidding note crept into his voice. "And none shall take them from us."

Once again, the name of the other clan called to mind Cullen's surname. Dorian was beginning to believe that wasn't a coincidence. "They attacked you?"

"Yes." Cullen glanced askance at him. "Wolfhold warriors are fierce, but so are we, and they feared they would not defeat us as they were. Their augur called upon the aid of a corrupted god, who gifted them with wolves unlike any that walk this land. They feared neither man nor fire and fought with a viciousness ordinary wolves do not evince. They could plan as the red lions do, but with subtlety that even the lions lack."

Mentioning red lions turned Dorian's thoughts to Selkor and the spirit that more often than not resided within his flesh. "Demons," he said after a moment's contemplation. "Their augur turned a pack of abominations loose on the land."

"Just so." Cullen's voice grew somber. "Many were lost in those first days. To twist one of the creatures of the land so far is unconscionable. We did not believe that any among the clans would sink so low. Yet they did. And they sent their cursed wolves to slaughter us all."

The vague outline of the picture Cullen was painting began to take shape in Dorian's mind. "You killed them all, didn't you, Cullen _Wolf-Bane_?"

Cullen exhaled through his nose, like a muted breath of laughter. "They attacked the hold and I lead the remaining warriors against them. I killed the pack leader and half a dozen other wolves. The other warriors killed the rest. After that, we went to Wolfhold and killed the mad augur." 

It was a fairly concise summation of events, but Dorian could read between the lines. " _You_ killed the abomination," he said shrewdly, intently watching Cullen's expression. "Their augur, I mean. It was you."

He didn't deny it, though he didn't put on airs about it either. "I struck the killing blow."

Which, Dorian was guessing, meant that Cullen broke off from the rest of the group well before they reached their destination, snuck through Wolfhold alone despite how dangerously stupid it was, and killed the source of the attacks before his people got there. He didn't ask about it. Knowing Cullen as he was beginning to, he expected that he'd deflect the question the same as he'd just done.

"Why didn't you wait for the rest of your war party?" he asked instead, cutting straight to the chase.

Again, there was no denial. Cullen simply looked at him, something a little like respect—or perhaps it was admiration—in his eyes before they cut away. "It was my duty to protect the hold and those who live within it."

And with that, the mystery over Cullen's suicidal actions the night of the raid was finally solved. "Which is why you were going to chase after the captives alone, wasn't it? You were trying to minimize the loss of life."

Because he was looking at him for confirmation, Dorian caught the quicksilver smile that passed across Cullen's scarred mouth. "I was not wrong."

"You had me," Dorian pointed out severely.

Cullen nodded beatifically. "A gift from the gods during our time of need."

That wasn't what he'd expected him to say _at all_ and it quite effectively shut him up. Part of him wanted to inform Cullen that he most certainly was _not_ a gift from anything and it was proof that Cullen knew nothing about him that he thought something so utterly asinine. Another part, the one he'd carefully cultivated over the years to mask the petty slights and careless wounds that were a hazard of calling Tevinter home, wanted to smile broadly and agree that he _was_ a gift and Cullen ought to be extraordinarily grateful for his presence. Perhaps even insinuate that a truly grateful thane would offer a gift of his own to Dorian's illustrious person.

But the rest of him, buried beneath bluster and so many facades he nearly forgot where they ended and he began, was disconcerted to find himself speechless. Even his casually affected arrogance had abandoned him. To the best of his knowledge, no one had ever thought of him this way, not without a significant number of expectations that over the course of time disappeared beneath an onslaught of disappointment, and he didn't quite know what to make of it.

Or Cullen, for that matter. The man was baffling. Just when he thought he'd finally come to understand him, he said or did something else and threw all of Dorian's suppositions into disarray.

Dorian didn't say much after that and Cullen didn't press him for conversation. They walked in an odd sort of companionable silence for some miles, gradually making their way down the winding mountain pass into the valley below. The scattering of snow that had been lying on the ground near the top of the mountain melted away the further down they went, and by the time they reached the floor of the valley, it was gone. It wasn't _much_ warmer down here, however, which Dorian found disappointing. Evidently nothing about this inhospitable land was warm. Except possibly some of its people, and that was a path down which Dorian really didn't want to travel.

Once in the valley, it didn't take them long to reach the river near which the missing fisherman lived . Cullen told him that they would reach his hut soon, and by the time the sun was approaching its zenith in the sky, the ratty looking building came into view. There were a few wooden racks out front, though they were bare of fish or other game. Cullen's hand went to his sword, and after a gesture to be quiet, crept forward.

After hearing of the past actions of Wolfhold and watching Selkor tear the warriors apart not so very long ago, Dorian was expecting carnage when Cullen nudged the hut's door open. What greeted his eyes instead of a rotting corpse and dried blood spattered across the walls was a merrily burning fire and a mildly embarrassed, mud-free barbarian with a splinted leg.

According to him, he'd slipped on a wet rock, broken his leg, and likely would have died were it not for the intervention of a passing clansman from Swift-River Hold. That man had tended to his leg, brought in his catch, and periodically returned to check in on him while he healed.

Evidently, not _all_ Avvar clans were at each other's throats. When Dorian voiced that observation, Cullen laughed and explained that there were a number of alliances between various clans across the Frostbacks. Red-Lion Hold had good relations with quite a few of the clans, of which one happened to be Swift-River. 

They lingered for a few hours with the fisherman, whose name Dorian learned to be Hren, giving him news of the hold and helping him with some of the tasks that were the most difficult for him to accomplish due to his injury. It was strange to see the thane engaging in such menial labor. The Archon of the Imperium would never sweep the floors of a hut or go out and catch a few fish for someone else's supper. Dorian wanted to comment on it, but deemed that too rude even for him to say in the presence of Hren. Later, when they were on the trail back to the hold, he meant to bring it up.

And he did, once they'd left the forest floor behind. Cullen had laughed, then laughed even harder when Dorian made the comparison to the Archon.

"A figurehead must maintain his status by demonstrating the difference between himself and those he raises himself above," Cullen said eventually, after he'd calmed down enough to speak intelligible words. "A leader does not separate himself from those he would lead, for they are equals, and men are only ever truly willing to be led when they can put their respect and trust in the one who would lead them. True respect comes from working _beside_ others, not above them."

It was food for thought, and although a part of Dorian bristled at being told how a _true_ leader acts by a man who thought it perfectly acceptable to wear mud, he couldn't quite deny his logic. Oh, he tried, of course, but the mental maneuvering such an attempt took was too great an undertaking for so little gain. It was easier just to be honest with himself about it.

The walk back to the hold was an enjoyable one. Dorian and Cullen traded idle chitchat, neither feeling the need to fill the silence when it settled around them. Cullen was not the sort of man who liked to hear himself talk. Dorian was, but usually only when he took issue with something and needed to distract himself from his discontent. Except despite all of his expectations and assumptions, he wasn't discontented with his current situation. He didn't enjoy the cold or the crude conditions in the least, that hadn't changed since his arrival, but he wasn't miserable. He wasn't precisely _happy_ either, but he was closer to it than he'd been since his apprenticeship with Alexius had taken a turn for the worse.

So when silence fell, he let it, until a stray thought or observation flitted through his mind and he felt compelled to voice it. Cullen would always listen, though he would not always volunteer his own opinion. When he did, however, Dorian could usually count on a few minutes of intense debate or uninhibited amusement.

That was another thing about Cullen that Dorian found strange, if only because he had so little experience with it in his own life. Cullen was free with his emotions. If he was happy or confused or angry, he didn't hide it. He didn't go out of his way to share it, either, but he didn't go through any complicated attempts to disguise his emotions as something else the way those in Tevinter did. Half the time, Dorian was left wondering when Cullen’s sincerity would be shown for the lie he kept expecting it to be, yet it never happened. There was no secret meaning buried beneath what he said and did. It was as refreshing as it was disconcerting; Dorian was still getting used to that kind of honesty.

When they reached the hold, he expected that they would go their own ways. Cullen no doubt had plans to arrange for members of the clan to visit Hren so that his care wouldn’t remain solely on Swift-River Hold, but inside the gate, he gestured for Dorian to accompany him. Having nothing more pressing to do—he was going to meet with Vestar later to learn of the Avvar way of magic—he fell into step beside him, tempted to ask where they were going but ultimately content to find out when they got there. The hold was large, but it wasn’t _that_ large. He wouldn’t have to wait long to have his curiosity satisfied.

And he didn’t. They went straight to Cullen’s hut, pausing only momentarily on the way to exchange greetings with the clanspeople they passed. Once they were inside and the door closed behind them, Cullen turned to him and said, apropos to nothing, “Take off your shirt.”

Caught off-guard, Dorian froze for an instant, a slightly hysterical part of his mind wondering if he’d gotten tangled up in a rather libidinous daydream and had misheard what Cullen had just said. But from the expectant rise of his eyebrow, it seemed that he hadn’t. Where he was going with it, however, was something of a mystery.

“Without even offering me a drink first?” Dorian asked archly, recovering his aplomb. He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. “I must say, Thane Wolf-Bane, your hospitality leaves much to be desired.”

With a sigh, Cullen rolled his eyes. “I’ve dozens of things to do. If you’re just going to make jokes and be uncooperative, you may go amuse yourself elsewhere.”

Dorian gave him a critical look. “Did you lose your sense of humor somewhere in all that mud and fur?”

Cullen’s expression got blander and even less amused, if such a thing were possible. “I’m not wearing warpaint right now.”

It was Dorian’s turn to sigh, which he did like the entire conversation pained him greatly. “So literal.” He shook his head. “It was a joke. Which was obviously lost on you. Poor man.”

Refusing to rise to the bait, Cullen crossed his arms over his chest. It was actually rather a shame to see him cover up such a masterpiece of sculpted muscle like that. It was a struggle, but Dorian managed to keep the disappointment off his face. “Well?”

Undaunted by Cullen’s refusal to have fun, Dorian gave him a blatantly seductive smile and pitched his voice into an almost exaggeratedly low purr. “Shall I put on a show?”

Cullen snorted, looking utterly unimpressed. “Perhaps if I had all evening to waste,” he said sarcastically, but Dorian caught a faint note of amusement, effectively transforming what could have been an insult into sharp, yet benevolent, banter.

And it was because he heard that amusement, and knew that Cullen hadn’t meant to be disparaging, that Dorian refrained from making a barbed comment and instead huffed in _feigned_ offense. “You are no fun.”

He didn’t want to take off the shirt. Even with a low fire burning within it, the hut was still cooler than he would have liked for being half-naked. But he still hadn’t quite worked out what Cullen was after with this and the curious part of him—to say nothing of the part that was extremely attracted to him—wouldn’t permit him to back out just for the sake of a little discomfort.

With absolutely no flare, Dorian unhooked the buckles that held his shirt closed and pulled it off. He glanced around for a moment, then laid it on plain wooden table set against the one wall, his skin already prickling in the chill of the air. When he turned his attention back to Cullen, he gave him a severe look. “And I assure you, it would not have been a waste.”

Not saying a word in response, Cullen looked him over in a considering way that made a flush of warmth blossom under his skin. It was approving, perhaps even appreciative, and Dorian, who knew full well how good he looked, couldn’t help preening just a little.

Turning, Cullen moved to a large chest near his bed, opened it, and drew forth a large clay pot. He shut the chest, then came back and stopped in front of Dorian, close enough that it would have been easy to shift his weight and _accidentally_ brush against him. Resisting such an impulse took a great deal of willpower, but Dorian was loath to ruin the easiness of their relationship by making an unwelcome move.

“What is that?” he asked instead of doing something more forward, nodding toward the pot.

He was unprepared for the smug smirk of satisfaction that overtook Cullen’s face. “Mud.”

All at once, Dorian realized what Cullen was doing. Between the visit to Hren and the distraction of the things they’d discussed to and from the valley, Dorian had forgotten all about his earlier sniping at Cullen’s strange habit of wearing so little. More than that, he’d forgotten Cullen’s offer to show him—odd turn of phrase that unfortunately was now making a little more sense—why he wasn’t bothered by the cold.

“Oh no.” Shaking his head, Dorian took a step backward away from him. “No. Absolutely not.” He raised his arms in a warding gesture. “You aren’t putting that on me.”

Cullen’s smirk deepened as he took a step forward. A disgustingly mud-covered vision of the future flashed through his mind’s eye and Dorian bolted for the door. Cullen must have been prepared for him to flee, for he only managed to take two steps before an arm as unyielding as iron wrapped around his waist and hauled him backward. Dorian would deny to his last breath that he made anything so undignified as a yelp, but there was a peculiar echo fading in the hut as his back hit the solid wall of muscle that his brain somewhat belatedly identified as Cullen’s chest.

Ordinarily, Dorian would have taken advantage of finding himself unexpectedly pressed bodily against Cullen’s chest. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either and Dorian could feel the warmth of his skin shielding his back from the cold air. But Cullen’s other hand still held the pot of Maker-forsaken mud and not even a half-naked barbarian king made that worth it.

Squirming as though his life depended on it, Dorian stamped his foot down on Cullen’s and clawed at his arm. “I’ll scream,” he threatened him. “Selkor will come to my rescue.”

Cullen’s chest shook against him as he laughed, and only a panicked refusal to let this happen prevented Dorian from shivering in a most embarrassing manner when he felt the puff of his hot breath flowing over the side of his neck. “How do you figure that?”

“We’re blooded, aren’t we?” It was a stab in the dark. Dorian couldn’t remember the proper term he’d heard Cullen use for it.

He hadn’t gotten the term right, but Cullen didn’t have trouble understanding what he meant. “You think he and I are not?”

It was horribly distracting to have Cullen speaking right near his ear like that. Dorian swallowed, mustering the haughtiest voice he had. “Yes, but _I_ can speak to him.”

Cullen shrugged, arm tightening like a vise around him. “I offer him the best part of my kills.”

In the battle of food versus communication, Dorian knew which would be the victor with a lion, possessed or not. He scowled. “Cheating bastard.”

Again came the hot breath ghosting over his skin as Cullen chuckled. “Perhaps.” The tip of his nose butted up against Dorian’s ear as he made some unseen gesture with his head. “Are you going to cooperate or not?”

“Will you let me go if I do?” Dorian returned immediately.

“Aye.”

Suddenly, that wasn’t quite the motivation he’d imagined it to be. Glancing down, Dorian noticed how defined the cords of muscle running along Cullen’s forearm were. It wasn’t a passionate embrace, that was relegated to Dorian’s late night imaginings when he could stop pretending that he wasn’t as attracted to Cullen as he was, but it was as close as he was going to get. And Cullen was _warm_. He was like a muscly blanket that Dorian wasn’t looking forward to parting with.

“And if I don’t?” he inquired innocently.

He wasn’t trying to be blatantly seductive. He wasn’t even running his hand appreciatively over Cullen’s arm, though he desperately wanted to do so. But somehow, with that strange prescience he showed whenever Dorian was least expecting it, Cullen understand what he was actually saying.

“If you’re being contrary just for this,” he responded, laughing again. At least there was that. He didn’t sound put out or offended. “I’ll let you go anyway.”

Some battles were lost before they’d even begun. Dorian knew that. Just as he knew there was really only one way this was going to end.

“Oh, fine,” he sighed, slumping dramatically back against Cullen’s chest. “Make me filthy, then.”

Whether he recognized the innuendo or not, Cullen chuckled once more, then loosened his hold on Dorian’s waist. Ever inclined to be contrary, he _almost_ made a run for it again, but like he was anticipating such a bid for freedom, Cullen didn’t let him go for long. Catching his hip in his one hand, he spun Dorian around to face him.

Dorian glowered, just to let him know that he didn’t appreciate this at all. The mud, anyway. The manhandling was all right. He could do with a little more of that, actually. About to make a comment to that effect, he was silenced when Cullen opened the pot, scooped out a blob of mud, and smeared it in a bold line straight across the middle of Dorian’s chest.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. Everything since they’d stepped into the hut suggested that Cullen meant to physically put the slop on him, but suspecting something and knowing it because it was currently happening were two very different levels of awareness.

Feeling just a little speechless, Dorian could only stare at Cullen’s face as he dipped his fingers into the pot, eyed Dorian’s chest, then liberally applied the newest selection of grey-brown muck. Cullen’s eyes were on what he was doing, not Dorian’s face, so he didn’t feel the need to try to conceal his scrutiny. Cullen’s fingertips, slightly rough beneath the coating of mud, followed the curve of one of Dorian’s pecs. Unable to stop himself, Dorian swallowed.

Then, he curled one of the hands hanging limply against his sides into a fist as the next pass of Cullen’s hand took the pad of his forefinger directly over his nipple. The jolt of sensation went straight to his cock, spiking his arousal even further and forcing him to clamp down on another shiver.

This was terrible. Awful. Like some kind of excruciatingly frustrating torture. And it only continued to get worse.

Cullen took his blighted time, like he was a painter creating some masterpiece of a portrait. Instead of slathering it on Dorian’s skin in a haphazard swirl, he was caressing it into his skin. Every curve of muscle resulted in entirely too much tracing, from his pecs down to the point where his abdomen disappeared beneath the concealment of his trousers. And after all the careful attention Cullen devoted to getting the consistency of the mud _just right_ over and around his nipples, Dorian had never been so grateful for loose-fitting trousers than he was at the moment.

It was impossible to believe that Cullen didn’t realize he was hard. The inside of the hut was darker than it was outside, but the fire cast some light and still more filtered in through the windows. There was enough to see that the creases across the front of his groin weren’t made by an unfortunate bunching of his trouser’s fabric and Cullen afforded his abdomen the same intense scrutiny as the rest of him.

And try though he did to give nothing away, Dorian’s heart was pounding in his chest and his breathing was slightly shallower than it had been when this started. With Cullen’s hands all over him, there was no way to mistake it.  

By the time Cullen moved onto his arms, Dorian was half-convinced that he was going to pass out from a sustained lack of blood in his brain. _How much fucking mud is in that pot?_ He thought furiously, as Cullen stepped around him to run mud-covered fingers down his back. _I’m going to kill him._ That sentiment only grew more vehement when Dorian couldn’t suppress the way he shivered as Cullen traced his spine. But Cullen—bless him or curse him, Dorian wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more—didn’t comment on it or slow the steady motions of his hand.

Though when his fingers brushed along the small of his back, just above the waistband of his trousers, it took every iota of composure Dorian possessed not to groan. Or set the bloody bastard on fire.

“Are you finally done?” he growled, trying to turn the hoarseness of his voice into a tone of impatience instead of the arousal that it was, when Cullen finally moved back in front of him again.

Cullen just smiled a serenely calm smile and lifted his muddy fingers to Dorian’s face.

Pulling back with a hiss, Dorian forgot his arousal for a moment. “Not the face!”

“Shh,” Cullen counseled, smearing a wide streak of it from Dorian’s temple to the point of his chin.

“I hate you.”

A quiet huff of laughter met that assertion. “No, you don’t,” Cullen disagreed, running his fingertips along Dorian’s cheekbone. To spread the mud, of course, Dorian was under no illusions about that, but in other circumstances, it would’ve been the sort of intimacy that he’d so often craved in Tevinter.

He couldn’t decide if that was simply Cullen’s overblown sense of his own importance or if he was making an oblique comment about his erection. Because despite his somewhat forced ire, he was still hard and still having trouble not grabbing Cullen by the back of the head and kissing the breath out of him. It certainly didn’t help that his face was _right there_ and he was staring into Dorian’s eyes as often as he wasn’t.

“There had better be a point to this,” Dorian grumbled, deciding that the best way to handle the problem was to ignore it.

“Such impatience.” In Cullen’s smooth, amused voice, it came out sounding more like fondness than a condemnation.

“You would be impatient too, if you had some uncouth ruffian getting wet dirt all over you.”

The finger currently making nonsensical whorls across Dorian’s forehead paused in mid-circle as Cullen studied him. A slow smile crept across his mouth the way light tended to sluggishly drag itself over the horizon in this part of the world. “I’ve been gentle,” he mused thoughtfully. “But if you’d prefer I be rough, you need only say so.” 

_Damn him to the darkest reaches of the Void_ , Dorian thought vehemently. _That was deliberate, the smug bastard._ Cullen knew exactly what he was doing. Dorian could see that now. It was there in the glimmer of amusement in his eyes and that insufferable smirk that kept teasing at the corners of his mouth without ever making a real appearance. It was in the suggestive things he kept saying and in the tone he chose to use to say them. There was no need to dip his voice into a lower register, yet he’d done it, looking straight into Dorian’s eyes from mere inches away. He knew.

_It would serve him right if I did kiss him. Teach him the consequences of playing with fire._ But he didn’t. He hadn’t been actively looking for it, since it hardly mattered to _him_ , but he’d noticed that the couples in the hold were comprised of one man and one woman. Either there was no one in the hold that preferred to keep intimate company with the same sex or the clan held the same views that Tevinter did. Given the largely insular nature of the Avvar, Dorian suspected that the explanation had more to do with the latter than the former.

Cullen’s comments could simply be curiosity—surely he’d heard rumors of how other people conducted themselves in lands to the north of the Frostbacks—or perhaps this was simply how friends behaved. Harmlessly flirtations that weren’t truly flirtation because there was no attraction behind it. Acting out of turn on a gesture that was merely friendly might elicit an angrier response than he wanted to deal with. And after so many one-off encounters in Tevinter, Dorian wasn’t interested in sating Cullen’s curiosity, if that was what this was about. Even if it had the potential to be the kind of amazing night he would never forget.

It felt like a small eternity crawled by before Cullen pronounced that his handiwork was completed, but the moment finally came when he stepped back and set the seemingly self-refilling pot of mud down on the nearby table.

"Come outside,” he instructed, leaving Dorian standing in the middle of the hut to move toward the door.

“Looking like this?” Dorian dug in his heels, shaking his head. “Never. What will people think?” He didn’t really care what a bunch of Avvar thought, but it was habit to give the impression that he was more vapid than he actually was.

Hand on the door handle, Cullen turned back to him with an upturned eyebrow. “That you’re brave enough to leave the comforts of familiarity behind and try something new?”

“Ugh,” Dorian groaned, finding that that singular noise summed up his disgust with the mud and Cullen’s irritatingly upbeat nonsense quite well.

But there was no help for it. Cullen was already exiting the hut, leaving the door wide open, and Dorian could either keep standing there covered in mud or go with him in the hopes that there was a more expedient way of getting it off of him than scrubbing for hours with a wash basin.

Refusing to acknowledge anyone who might be gawking at him, Dorian kept his eyes on Cullen as he stalked after him. Cullen didn’t stop walking immediately; he took one of the paths curving up higher into the mountain without looking back to make sure that Dorian was following him. After a few minutes, he stopped next to a massive ledge that overlooked a large part of the hold and the valley far below.

“How do you feel?” he asked, finally turning to acknowledge Dorian’s disgruntled presence.

“Dirty,” Dorian answered shortly.

“And?”

Cullen was trying to get at something. Dorian wasn’t feeling cooperative enough to let him. “Filthy.”

Cullen sighed the exasperated sigh that Dorian was well on his way to thinking of as _his._ He’d only ever heard Cullen express that particular tone of impatient frustration with him. “Dorian.”

“Like I need a bath.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Cullen took a deep breath in through his nose, then slowly exhaled. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

Cullen’s eyebrows rose. “Shouldn’t you be?" 

“Of course,” Dorian snapped. Of all the stupid things Cullen could ask him after putting him through all of this aggravation. “It’s—Wait.”

He _should_ have been cold. But he wasn’t. He could feel the wind blowing through his hair and tugging at the fabric of his trousers, but instead of being reduced to a shivering mess, he felt fine. Better than, in fact. He felt _comfortable._

Cullen was smirking at him. Dorian returned the smirk with a glare of disbelief. “It’s the bloody _mud_?”

“A gift to our clan from Hakkon Wintersbreath many centuries ago,” Cullen replied, managing the supremely annoying feat of sounding lecturing _and_ smug _._

“It’s enchanted mud,” Dorian pointed out flatly.

Nodding, Cullen said unrepentantly. “Aye.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered in disgust. Though he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. The Avvar were dirty barbarians. And proud of it, too. If they were going to have an enchanted anything, he could think of nothing they’d like better than mud.

He looked at Cullen, standing there near the edge of the ledge, looking perfectly at ease with the deadly drop so close to his toes and the cold wind flowing over his bare skin. Part of him wondered, uncharitably, if it was all a show in an attempt to be impressive. The rest of him could see that Cullen wasn’t acting.

“Are you cold now?” he couldn’t resist asking. “Since you’re not wearing the mud.”

Cullen bobbed his head from one side to the other. “Somewhat, though I’m accustomed to it. The weather is mild today.”

_Mild, he says. There’s snow all over the mountains and he calls this_ mild _._ Dorian was damn sure he didn’t want to experience whatever Cullen thought was cold. “Barbarians,” he grumbled critically, before clapping his hands together. “Now, how do I get this slop off?”

Cullen looked at him, head tipped to the side in contemplation, and suddenly smirked so broadly that Dorian knew he wasn’t going to like whatever it was he was going to say. But Cullen _didn’t_ say anything. He swooped in, grabbed Dorian around the waist, ignored his outraged yelp as he slung him over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and started _running_ further up the path.

Dizzy from the abrupt relocation and jostling uncomfortably into Cullen’s shoulder, Dorian banged a fist against his back. “Put me down this instant, you brute!”

The only response he got was laughter. He couldn’t see where Cullen was going and wasn’t _quite_ familiar enough with the land around the hold to figure it out. He was just starting to settle into this undignified foolishness, distracted by the realization of just how strong Cullen was to be able to run _up a mountain pass_ carrying a grown man, when he slowed to a stop.

“It’s about—” Dorian’s tirade was cut short as the moment suddenly got away from him.

One second he was bent over with Cullen’s shoulder digging into his sternum, and the next he was airborne. Which admittedly was a lot better than the following moment, when he landed with a huge splash into a large pool of water. He came up spluttering, furious and expecting to be freezing, but after he’d gotten his feet under him, he realized that the water was warm.

That Cullen had thrown him into a hot spring was the only thing that prevented Dorian from setting him fire. But that didn’t save his furry loincloth, which Dorian _did_ set alight. Though true to form, instead of shrieking in terror, Cullen simply jumped into the water after him, and when he surfaced next to him, he was laughing.

* * *

 

“That never happened,” Felix denied almost before Dorian’s story had come to a conclusion.

“Yes it did!” Dorian protested, vaguely offended that Felix would think him exaggerating. Or worse, lying outright.

“You’re a grown man. He couldn’t carry you _and_ run up the side of the mountain,” Felix paused, then added with mock suspicion. “Not unless he’s half Qunari.”

Dorian snorted. “First you think I’m exaggerating the man’s abilities and now you’re accusing me of being attracted to those lumbering oxmen? It’s like you don’t know me at all anymore.”

“The side of a _mountain_ , Dorian.”

The way Felix made it sound, it was as if Dorian had described Cullen running up a vertical cliff-face without even getting short of breath. “There are a variety of elevations in mountains, Felix. I know we rarely get the huge, snow-covered sort in Minrathous, but I assure you, the real things are nothing like crude drawings would suggest.”

“I’ve been to the Anderfels,” Felix reminded Dorian dryly. “I know what a mountain looks like.”

“And I know what it’s like to be carried along a mountain path by a lunatic barbarian and thrown into a hot spring,” Dorian said stiffly. “So until it happens to _you_ , you might want to assume I know what I’m talking about.”

Felix sighed in defeat. “All right. Fine. What else can Cullen of the Strongest Arms in Thedas do?”

“Cullen Strong-Arms,” Dorian mused with a grin. “Maybe I should suggest that to him. Sounds so much more dashing than Wolf-Bane.”

* * *

Half a day spent hiking through the forest that covered the valley floor and already Dorian was thinking more about his warm, furry bed and the enormous fire he was going to be building as soon as they got back to the hold than he was about what they were doing. Why he’d agreed to come on this venture was beyond him. He’d been trained as a battlemage, not a hunting mage, and besides that, the hunting party had enough people who were competent hunters. His presence was unnecessary.

But it had also been requested by Cullen.

It hadn’t been an order, merely an invitation he could have rejected if he hadn’t wanted to accompany them. And he didn’t want to accompany them. Cullen, however, was a different story.

Dorian enjoyed spending time with him. A month and a half after he’d decided to stay for an unspecified time period, he and Cullen had become friends. Good friends. The sort of friend Dorian could count as having on one hand with fingers aplenty to spare. He’d never stopped being attracted to him, even after so much time that hadn’t dimmed in the least, but he had made peace with the fact that all the thane would ever be was a friend.

And quite honestly, that was good enough for Dorian. He valued the friendship a great deal. So when Cullen had asked if he’d wanted to join him, while truthfully he had no desire to traipse through the forest hunting wild animals, he had wanted to spend time with his friend. He’d grumbled about it a bit, even made a half-serious token denial after significant cajoling, but in the end, after Cullen hadn’t given up and left without him, he’d said yes.

Now, however, dirty—such a common state of being for the Avvar that he wondered why he was ever surprised about it—and tired, he was well on his way to deciding that not even Cullen was worth this much fuss.

Naturally, that was when Cullen reappeared after a short absence, stepping through a break in the trees into a beam of light rather like one of the gods in the Avvars’ stories. He was wearing trousers with his loincloth—a new one with the mottled red and black fur of a red lion unrelated to Selkor—today, a rare occasion that had won him so much teasing that Dorian was sure that he’d caught the barest hint of a blush across his cheeks for a moment. He was bare-chested, his skin covered with a mixture of grey, white, and black paint. Cullen had said that it was meant to camouflage him amidst the variable light and shadow along the forest floor, but the streaks of black on his face, thick around his eyes and tapering into points near his temples, made him look a little like the hold’s namesake. Walking out of the shadows of the forest like some kind of ancient forest god didn’t do anything to diminish that similarity. Dorian made a mental note to tease him about it later. 

Cullen made a series of hand gestures to the hunters arrayed in front of Dorian, and with small nods of acknowledgement, they melted into the forest. The gestures were meaningless to Dorian, who simply crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his eyebrows. Catching the look, Cullen came closer, stalking silently over the ground until he was right beside Dorian, crowded so close he was almost touching him.

“There’s a large herd of deer ahead,” Cullen told him softly, voice so quiet it was clear why he’d stepped as close as he had.

“Tell me you’re not suggesting we take the whole herd back to the hold,” Dorian murmured back just as quietly. “There are only six of us.”

“Only two,” Cullen said with a tiny, yet patient smile.

“That’s why you brought me along today, isn’t it?” Dorian gave him a withering glare. “To make me carry some bloody carcass up a mountainside.”

The next step Cullen took brought him into contact with Dorian; just a brief press of his shoulder against Dorian’s before he straightened his path. “No,” he corrected him. “I just wanted the company.”

Dorian still wasn’t accustomed to Cullen’s random displays of affection. They weren’t anything dramatic, and certainly not inappropriate, but even something as simple as stating that someone enjoyed someone else’s friendship in Tevinter was an exploitable weakness. Cullen didn’t care. Nor did he care about who heard him. They’d been walking through the hold last week and in the midst of laughing at a joke, Cullen had slung his arm around Dorian’s shoulders in full view of everybody. Dorian had waited for the recoil once he’d realized what he’d done, but it never came. And Cullen’s arm had been a warm weight there around his shoulders for nearly the entirety of their trip from the augur’s hut the huntmaster’s.

"The other hunters in the group don't count, do they?" Dorian teased. "Has my illustrious presence raised your standards so very high already?"

Cullen grinned. "Maybe a little," he returned, then nodded in the direction the other hunters had gone. "Are you ready?"

"What precisely is it you want me to do?"

"Keep the lurkers busy."

Dorian's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"

"Falkyr noticed a pack of them stalking the deer," Cullen said, as if this information was nearly as inconsequential as whether the wind was blowing from the north or the west.

Before spending time with the Avvar, Dorian had not encountered lurkers. It was only after he'd seen a young hunter dragging in the reptilian corpse of something that vaguely resembled a wingless dragon that he'd asked what it was and learned of the creatures. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to be outraged that Cullen had brought him along to be bait or pleased that Cullen thought so much of his magical abilities that he wasn't concerned about pitting him against a pack of poison-spitting monsters.

"That's why you really brought me along, isn't it?" he muttered, opting to express only displeasure.

Cullen shook his head. "I'd planned on dealing with them if we encountered them."

"Of course you did." Dorian rolled his eyes, easily picturing the great fool of a man throwing himself heedlessly into the middle of the beasts, chopping and slashing with his enchanted sword with gleeful abandon. He'd probably be laughing like a madman, too.

"If you'd prefer—"

Dorian waved off the offer before he could finish making it. "You think I can't handle a few pests? Point me in the right direction."

Cullen lifted his hand, but he didn't point to anything. He simply curled his fingers into a fist and held it aloft. Dorian raised an eyebrow, half-tempted to sarcastically ask if the creatures could fly. It wouldn't surprise him if the answer was yes. The land here was strange and the creatures within it even stranger. It made him wonder if there was latent magic lingering in the land that mutated the fauna into larger, bizarre versions of normal beasts.

There was no flock of flying lurkers. Cullen was only signaling to Falkyr, who plummeted silently from the air and perched on his upraised fist with a soft rustle of feathers. The eagle was huge, and his large curved talons looked like wickedly sharp knives, but he didn't dig them into Cullen's bare hand as he settled and Cullen didn't so much as flinch at the weight of him.

Dorian tried not to stare at his bicep. He was mostly successful.

"Take Falkyr," Cullen was saying, holding out his fist, and presumably the eagle, to Dorian.

"What, literally?" Dorian looked dubiously between the eagle and Cullen.

"You wear gloves," Cullen looked pointedly at the accessories in question. "Worry not that your hands will be unprotected from his talons."

"I'm not really an animal person," Dorian told him, though he warily extended his hand.

Cullen took it in his free one and manipulated Dorian's fingers into a fist. After a testing squeeze, he nodded and the eagle transferred itself onto his hand with a flutter of wings. Dorian manfully tightened up his muscles in stubborn refusal to let his arm sag.

"He is no animal," Cullen said with a knowing grin. "He is a hunting partner."

Dorian grimaced. "Yes, yes. Barbarian mystical mumbo jumbo. I know."

"Fly true," Cullen told the bird, then shifted his gaze to Dorian. "And dance well."

Then he too disappeared into the forest, leaving Dorian standing there with an eagle and feeling like an enormous idiot.

"He would consider killing large monsters a dance, wouldn't he?" Dorian muttered in disgruntlement. Falkyr clacked his beak together. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe, like Selkor, he was attempting to communicate. Whatever the case, Dorian chose to take it as agreement.

After all, _someone_ had to agree with him that Cullen was a lunatic. Even it was only in his imagination.

* * *

"Well?" Felix demanded. "Did you kill the lurkers?"

"No," Dorian replied sarcastically. "I stood around and let the eagle do all the work."

There was laughter in Felix's voice as he said, "I figured."

"Yes, you twit. I killed the lurkers." After a tiny pause, Dorian amended slightly, "I killed _most_ of them. Apparently Cullen can't resist a battle and joined in once he saw how much fun I was having." That last bit was so dry that his voice was practically dusty.

"Is the eagle possessed too?"

"No, actually it isn't. It's just incredibly intelligent. Or it thinks Cullen is its mother. I can't decide which."

"So you're a hunter now?"

Dorian snorted. "Don't be absurd. It was one time. Not long after, he did take me to the top of the mountain to learn how to fly the eagle myself, but that was more of a lark than anything else."

* * *

"I didn't expect to find you out here," Cullen said, sounding pleased, as he took a seat on the log beside Dorian.

"No?" Dorian looked at him over the rim of his mug. The swill Avvar of Red-Lion Hold considered ale wasn't good by any stretch of the imagination, but after the first few sips numbed his tongue, the rest slid easily enough down his throat. From there, it spread through his veins like liquid fire, soothing and warm. Not quite as much as the fire blazing in front of him, but in combination, he found that he was almost comfortable. "Where did you think I'd be?"

"In the warmth of your hut," Cullen replied, and maybe it was the ale interfering with his perception of reality, but his voice sounded fondly affectionate. "Studying your magical books."

"They aren't magical," Dorian corrected him automatically. "They're just books. You've some here in the hold. I've seen them."

He didn't deny that. Just like he didn't hesitate to admit, "Yes, but I cannot read yours."

"That's because they're written in Tevene."

One of Cullen's dark eyebrows rose. "And is not Tevinter the land of magic?"

_Well_ , Dorian thought, studying him. _He has me there._ "Not the way you're implying, but..." He shrugged. "I suppose that's an accurate enough description."

It had been a fine day. The weather had been, if not warm, then at least not frigid and the wind wasn’t sharp and painful. The sky had been clear, the sun bright in a deep blue sky, and the Avvar had been in a joyous mood. The latest hunting expedition had brought in a variety of game and Hren’s leg had finally healed, allowing for a steady supply of fish to flow into the hold. And on top of such a bountiful few weeks, this day was one of the hold’s holy days.

Or what amounted to a holy day. Three months with the people and Dorian still wasn’t entirely clear on the nuances of their gods and the things they did to honor and revere them. What he did know was that today had been a day of games—a variety of feats of physical prowess and cleverness that all of the clan members had participated in, whether they were athletic or not—and the evening had brought a great feast. All of it, he’d been told, in honor of the Great Bear Sigfost. How precisely a _bear_ was honored by groups of people competing to see who could scale a mountain cliff the fastest or who could throw a spear the furthest remained a mystery that Dorian suspected he would never be able to solve. But he hadn’t minded.

It was fun. In a muddy, flea-infested, doglord savage kind of way. But he’d caught himself laughing along with Cullen at the antics of some of the younger warriors, and when the shamans had gathered together to see who could craft the most impressive fireball, Dorian had, at Cullen’s urgings, reluctantly—so he would claim until his last breath—participated.

And won, though that was hardly surprising. He _had_ received the best magical education Tevinter could provide. It was simply a matter of pride. He couldn’t lose. Especially when Cullen was standing there outside the ring watching him, cheering him on.

When night started to fall and the games gave way to feasting, Dorian had joined in. He still missed Tevinter cuisine, Avvar fare was bland by comparison and heavily based on meat and cheese, but he’d worked up a significant appetite over the course of the day and the cooks were competent at preparing meals. Cullen had saved a place at his side for him, which hadn’t truly surprised Dorian. Since he’d come to the hold, they’d taken dinner together more often than they hadn’t. But he’d noticed some of the sideways glances he’d received from the surrounding clanspeople when he sat down.

The looks hadn’t been hostile. By now, most in the clan had come to accept him. But simply because they’d accepted the presence of the eccentric, exiled Tevinter in their midst didn’t mean that they liked how much time he spent with their thane or how close to him he seemed to be. So while they hadn’t been giving him the evil eye, they’d been… _something_. Judgmental, perhaps, or disapproving. Dorian couldn’t quite identify what it was, he was too busy pretending that he didn’t notice, but he did notice, and as soon as it appeared, took the first opportunity to relocate somewhere away from both the attention and Cullen.

Going back to his hut would have been too much like a retreat and he refused to give ground to these people. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He wasn’t corrupting their thane with his evil magister ways. He thought they knew that, at least half of them were actually friendly toward him on a regular basis, but he supposed the suspicion and fear never truly went away. So he’d chosen the central bonfire, abandoned now that the tables were laden with food and the drink was flowing as swiftly as the river.

It was warm there by the fire. Even in his inappropriate northern clothes—he’d refused to go native and wear the leathers and furs of the Avvar—he wasn’t cold. No doubt the ale had something to do with it. He’d had, well, he hadn’t been keeping count but he knew that he’d had a few. Overheard, the stars were bright and clear, the sky so devoid of cloud cover that their light was approaching teal instead of white.

In another land, it might have been lonely. At the moment, and significantly insulated from his darker emotions by the ale, Dorian merely felt peaceful. So naturally, it was a novel sensation that barely lasted half an hour before it was rudely interrupted.

“If I’m intruding…” Cullen began, the sound of his voice pulling Dorian out of his inner musings.

“What?”

Cullen gestured toward the fire, though Dorian suspected what he really meant was the lack of people around them. “If you came over here to be alone, I can go.”

It was the alcohol, surely, that prompted him to ask curiously, “If you thought I might have come here to escape the festivities, why did you come over in the first place?” At least it wasn’t accusatory. Or worse, unwelcoming.

For a moment, Cullen was silent and Dorian watched the firelight flicker and slant across the stubbled plain of his jaw. It occurred to him then that he’d never seen him with a beard or a clean-shaven face. Some days the stubble seemed shorter than others, but it was always there. He wondered why.

Finally, just when he thought Cullen wasn’t going to answer him, he gave a tiny shrug and said guilelessly, “I thought you looked lonely.”

_You would think something like that_ , Dorian thought, though even he couldn’t deny that there was an undercurrent of affection there. And a bit of wonder, too. With the exception of Felix, who had been the exception to everything in his life, Cullen was the only person to acknowledge the loneliness Dorian always denied. More than that, he was the only person who _cared_ about it and Dorian still hadn’t been able to figure out why.

They weren’t family. They were friends now, yes, but they hadn’t the experience of years at one another’s side. There was no reason for Cullen to care about the stranger who’d so unceremoniously been drug into his hold, yet he obviously did. He cared about his feelings, he cared about his opinions. He just… _cared_.

Dorian laughed quietly under his breath, the sound a little bewildered even to his ears, and shook his head. “It’s nothing as dramatic as all that.” It was only a small lie. And everyone knew that small lies told to prevent a friend from worrying unduly were excusable. “It’s just warmer here. You know how much I hate the cold.”

A grin pulled at the corner of Cullen’s mouth. “I can go get the mud if you’d like.”

This time, Dorian’s laughter was a little more genuine. “If you think I’m letting you anywhere near me with a pot again, then you’re even crazier than I thought.”

“Do you think me crazy?”

Dorian rocked his head from side to side. “A bit, perhaps, but it’s the endearing sort of crazy.”

“Do you set fire to everyone you find endearing?” Cullen teased, not at all offended by Dorian’s irate display of pyrotechnics the day he’d chucked him into the spring.

Mouth curling into a grin of his own, Dorian leaned sideways toward Cullen and bumped him with his shoulder. “Only the handsome ones,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Cullen laughed softly, then fell silent as he stared into the fire. It was a comfortable, companionable silence. Dorian took a slow drink of his terrible ale, aware that he hadn’t settled back into his own space and Cullen hadn’t moved away from the press of his shoulder. He tried not to read anything into it or want more than what he had. He tried to enjoy it for what it was: warmth and companionship and a genuine friendship. Surprisingly enough, he was mostly successful.

After another sip, he offered the mug to Cullen. Taking it, he brought it to his mouth and took a swallow without so much as blinking an eye as it burned down his throat. Dorian wondered if the Avvar had some kind of tolerance for it bred into them through generations of people determined to consume acid or if Cullen had simply had so many mugs of the stuff already that night that he just couldn’t feel his tongue.

“Do you miss it?” Cullen asked quietly, as he passed the mug back.

“What?”

“Tevinter.” Unlike the rest of the Avvar, Cullen could say the name of his homeland without making the word sound like an insult.

There were two ways Dorian could respond to that: facetiously or honestly. Unable to decide on an approach, he tried to find a happy medium between the two. “Hmm, that depends what you’re asking,” he began. “If you’re asking if I miss the people, no. Magisters are a tiresome lot, intolerably arrogant and dreadfully boring conversationalists. But if you’re asking if I miss the weather or the bathing facilities, then yes. Every day.”

He loved his homeland. He missed it every day that he was away from it. And he hated that he _had_ to be away from it. But there was so much about it that he took issue with despite the love he felt for the country; until people were willing to change, and change all of the terrible things about Tevinter, he couldn’t go back. Not and remain silent, anyhow.

“Why haven’t you returned?” Cullen asked curiously. “Surely there are other Tevinters like you.”

It was tempting to clutch at his chest, gasp in dismay, and accuse Cullen of trying to get rid of him. He resisted. “Like me?” He looked blankly at Cullen, unable to parse that. He knew what _he_ would say—stunningly handsome, amazingly brilliant, unbelievably powerful—but Cullen didn’t bullshit. Whatever he said would be sincerely meant, it would be something honest and heartfelt and Dorian was curious as to what that was. “What do you mean?”

Cullen smiled, one of those small, secretive smiles that meant that whatever he was about to say was only for the two of them. Dorian hadn’t had inside jokes with anyone but Felix. He hadn’t expected to find the same thing with anyone else. “ _Almost_ intolerably arrogant.”

The unexpected answer startled a delighted laugh out of him. “But not boring?” he asked, grinning.

The smile got larger. “You are not boring, Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian sniffed haughtily. “I should think not.” In his most insufferably arrogant tone, he added, “I’m quite fascinating.”

Cullen chuckled. “Perhaps I misspoke when I said _almost_.”

Tipping the mug in Cullen’s direction, Dorian toasted him. “That’s more like it.” He brought the mug to his mouth and took a large gulp of the stuff.

As if the last few moments never occurred, Cullen said, in a tone more serious than he’d used a second ago, “Decent. Kind.” Dorian realized what he was talking about on the second adjective and almost choked on his mouthful of ale. He got it swallowed, but not without a bit of coughing. Cullen continued as if he wasn’t sitting there spluttering beside him. “The stories say that those of Tevinter are cruel and heartless. That they consort with demons and enslave people who’ve never threatened them just because they can.”

One of Cullen’s sword-rough hands settled over his shoulder and gripped it tightly. “You are not like that. You are a good man. And if Tevinter can produce one good man, surely it must produce others.”

The coughing must have strained a muscle in his throat. Or maybe he’d had too much to drink and the ale had finally burned its way through his esophagus. He wasn’t sure which option seemed the most realistic possibility, but there was a tight, burning sensation in his throat that hadn’t been there before and he was determined to attribute it to the booze. Otherwise, he was going to have to face the fact that Cullen had just inadvertently reached into the core of some of his worst insecurities and touched a chord.

Because he wanted so badly to change Tevinter; to see it made into the glorious country that it only thought it was but that he could easily see it becoming. And the opposition he knew he would meet if he tried was daunting and discouraging. But here was a man from the south who hailed from a people who by and large hated his country and the people within it, saying that he thought there was good in it. He didn’t know of Dorian’s desire to effect change within Tevinter. He was simply offering his opinion on the people Dorian publically disparaged based solely upon meeting _him_. By being himself, Dorian Pavus, social pariah and epitome of family disappointment, had shown a southerner that there was more to Tevinter than monstrous, blood mage magisters.

If he wasn’t sitting there listening to it, Dorian wouldn’t believe it possible. But it was. And if this was possible, then surely anything was.

There was something softer about Dorian’s smile then. Something _genuine_ and he knew it, but for once he didn’t mind such a naked display of emotion. Not right at the moment and not around Cullen.

“I like to think so,” he said, though for once he didn’t claim anything complimentary about himself. That was a mask of sorts, and now, and perhaps only now, Dorian felt a little like being honest for a change. “My best friend is one such person. He’s the best of them.”

A dullard would have heard the affection in his voice when he was speaking of Felix. Cullen absolutely heard it; the open way he smiled was evidence of that. “Do you not miss him?”

Again came that foreign impulse to give him a straight answer. “Every day.”

The cant of Cullen’s head grew slightly larger as he tipped it more to the side. “Why do you not return to him?”

That was asking for more honesty from him than he could see himself providing. “Would you accept that it’s complicated and leave it at that?” 

Anyone else probably would have said no, or if they weren’t feeling quite so blunt, would have tried to wheedle more information or leverage their friendship in an effort to satisfy their curiosity. Dorian knew Cullen was different, he’d had ample examples of that difference over the months he’d spent at the hold, but it was still somewhat surprising when he nodded and answered simply, “Aye.”

No more. No less. If Dorian had no wish to speak of it, Cullen would stop asking without guilting him for his reticence or calling into question whether he really trusted him. It was as admirable as it was irritating. There was respect inherent in the answer that Dorian couldn’t convince himself not to repay.

He sighed, took a bracing sip from the mug—it was almost empty, he was going to need to get more—and lowered it to rest against his thigh. “I don’t fit in with Tevinter society. My ways are not theirs and they dislike me for it. I don’t mind.” He didn’t, not really, and glanced sideways at Cullen to grin. “It’s _fun_ to shake things up from time to time and they’re all so easy to rile.”

Breathing out heavily, he looked down into the dregs of his ale. “But my family and I…” He grimaced, not sure how to explain it without _explaining_ it, and he’d had a lot to drink but not nearly enough to make that story flow unobstructed from his mouth. “We had a falling out. They wished me to be something I’m not and live a lie. I refused. Things got unpleasant.” Needing to inject some morbid levity into it, he smiled humorously. “There was an assortment of kidnapping and attempted murder.”

That last bit was a slight exaggeration. Halward hadn’t attempted to kill him with that ritual. Not literally. Though, he supposed that if he looked at it from another angle, attempted murder _would_ sum it up. The man who would have replaced him would not have been _Dorian_. With that in mind, he could see his way to calling it a type of murder.

“So I left. And one day, I’ll go back. I can’t avoid them forever, much as I might like to. But for now, I’m enjoying the freedom to be me.” He shot another glance Cullen’s way, and this time when he smiled, it wasn’t an empty expression. “And I’ve led myself to some very _interesting_ places.”

Cullen’s hand was back on his arm, lower this time, near his wrist. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “You are welcome to remain here for as long as you wish.”

“You shouldn’t make offers like that to strangers,” he teased. “You never know which ones will take such an invitation to heart and never leave.”

For a long, heavy moment, Cullen looked at him. They were sitting very close and there was an almost electric feeling to the air, like tension building to the moment when it would snap and… Dorian wasn’t sure, but he suspected he would do something foolish. Touch Cullen’s cheek, maybe, or throw all sense to the wind and kiss him.

He was watching Cullen’s eyes, trying to read something in them, when their focus shifted. Just for an instant, he watched his gaze flicker downward to his mouth. Dorian’s breath froze in his lungs. His very body seemed turned to stone as he waited, afraid to breathe and break the moment. Cullen wanted to kiss him. That was what that look meant, wasn’t it? He’d seen it often enough during his dalliances in Tevinter. Cullen wanted to kiss him and since he was a man of action, he was going to kiss him and all those nights of half-formed, frustrating longing would finally find release.

Cullen’s eyes found his again. The suspense was killing him. His own eyes dropped to Cullen’s mouth and he was just beginning to reach the decision to take the initiative himself and stop waiting when Cullen’s fingers tightened on his wrist and—

He smiled. It was warm and affectionate and Dorian wanted to scream, because it was the smile he’d seen on his face a hundred times. It was the smile of a man sharing a moment with his _friend_.

“The invitation stands,” Cullen told him firmly. And yes, it was all very well and good, and a thread of warm gratitude curled through him at hearing it, but in the moment, it wasn’t what he wanted at all.

And he was still looking at Cullen’s mouth, a rather obvious manifestation of the direction of his thoughts, he believed. Searching for a way to excuse it, and steer the conversation away from all this talk of _great friends being welcome in each other’s lives_ , he blurted out, “How did you get that scar?”

It was something he frequently wondered anyway. Cullen had never mentioned it, but it was big enough, and deep enough, to rule out a minor accident. There had to be a story there; Dorian wanted to focus on it until his heartbeat slowed and his disappointment receded.

Absently, as if he’d forgotten about it until now, Cullen’s hand rose to touch the aforementioned scar. “This?” He laughed, though this time the sound held a note of sheepishness. “You’re expecting a grand tale of action and heroics, aren’t you?”

Dorian feigned disbelief as he looked at him. “You mean your life hasn’t been comprised solely of dashing heroics? I don’t believe it.”

Cullen shook his head. “Only about half of it, I’m afraid,” he replied, though the humor in his voice suggested that that was an overestimation.

Keeping up the act of hideous disappointment over this revelation—never let it be said that Dorian didn’t know how to use theatrics to deal with his actual feelings—he heaved an enormous, melodramatic sigh. “All right, then. Let’s hear it. Though, if you simply tripped leaving your hut and fell on the edge of your sword, do me a favor and make up something interesting instead.”

Breathing out a soft chuckle, Cullen reached for the mug. Dorian handed it over and watched him drain it. “Would you like another?”

Dorian arched an eyebrow at him. “Need a few minutes to construct your impressive lie?” He waved imperiously at the far side of the square, where the tables were set up. “Go ahead.”

With a pat on his shoulder, Cullen got up and went to retrieve more ale. The Maker only knew that Dorian didn’t need more of it, but if he was going to continue sitting there in the dark with Cullen, having a heart-to-heart chat after the incontrovertible proof that Cullen truly harbored only friendly feelings for him, he was going to need it. In short order, he was back with two mugs, one of which he handed over to Dorian as he sat down.

Dorian took a careful sip, grimacing as the few taste buds that had struggled back to life in the absence of the vile brew died all over again.

“It happened during a hunt,” Cullen said before Dorian could start giving a scathing criticism of the ale. “I was younger then, just made a Stone Guardian, and foolish. I was over-confident and I wanted to impress a friend by slaying a great bear on my own. Armed with only a sword, I ventured into the foothills in search of one. I found a red lion instead. It tracked me for many miles, then ambushed me when I was beginning to grow tired.” He ran the pad of his forefinger along the length of the scar. “I received this scar as a lesson in the cost of arrogance.”

Dorian could only assume that the cost he spoke of was the pain he must have felt from such a wound. It certainly hadn’t diminished the attractiveness of his face. If anything, it enhanced it.

“What happened to the lion?”

Whatever embarrassment Cullen might have felt over the mistakes of his younger self vanished as he smiled. “He was young, just barely an adult himself. I brought him back to the hold with me.”

He didn’t need to say any more. Dorian realized that he’d already an inkling of an idea where this story was leading, and the more Cullen spoke of the lion, the clearer and more solid that idea became.

“Selkor,” he guessed, blithely stealing Cullen’s thunder. “The red lion was Selkor, wasn’t it?”

“Aye.” He neither looked nor sounded dismayed to have the climax of the story stolen from him. “Our previous hold-beast was growing old and wished to pass the mantle on to another. When she met Selkor, she pronounced him fit to be the new hold-beast and trained him in the ways of the clan.”

Listening to any of the Avvar talk about their gods, the nearby spirits, or their hold-beasts was difficult. Dorian was never quite certain what they meant, even now, after all the talks he’d had with the augur and the other shamans.

“Was he simply a lion then or had a spirit already joined with him?”

Cullen shrugged. “I cannot say. Red lions are intelligent on their own. It’s possible he was not yet joined by one of the gods. I have asked him, but Selkor answers no more than he wishes to answer. Though in the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter. It worked out as it was meant to.”

Dorian wasn’t a terribly religious man. He believed in the Maker, though he didn’t revere Andraste the way the southern Chantry did. And the Old Gods were dragons; however powerful they might have been in their time, they were still dragons. Even had they not fallen out of favor, he couldn’t have seen himself worshipping them. Through Avvar rituals and general contact with those sharing a body with a spirit—shaman apprentices, Selkor, and possibly Cullen’s eagle, Dorian had never quite believed the story that he wasn’t possessed—he’d encountered some of the spirits that the clan worshiped as gods. They were real enough, but that didn’t mean he believed that they had a plan for the clan and regularly meddled to see it brought to fruition.

But he didn’t argue with Cullen’s interpretation of events either. He’d lived them, after all. It wasn’t Dorian’s place to tell him what to believe.

“Did he ever apologize?” he inquired, gesturing toward Cullen’s face.

“Selkor?” He laughed. “Why would he? I was being foolish. He corrected me as any lion might correct a cub.”

“You’re hardly a cub.”

Cullen smiled around the rim of his mug as he took a drink. “To the gods, we are very young. And it served a purpose. There was never a need for apologies.”

He could spend a lifetime with the Avvar and Dorian was sure that he would never understand them. No sensible person would get attacked by a wild animal and respond by taking it home. But that was the Avvar, seeing gods in everything. And doing bloody stupid, ridiculously dangerous things seemed to be Cullen’s way. How he survived this long was another mystery Dorian knew he would never solve.

“What about that?” He pointed to the swirls of black ink that covered so much of Cullen’s upper left arm. “Is that a symbol ordained by the gods to make you impervious to the cold or something equally dramatic?”

Looking down at his arm, Cullen smiled a strange, indecipherable smile. “I wasn’t born of the hold,” he said after a moment, lifting his head to meet Dorian’s eyes.

“What?” Dorian stared at him in surprise.

“I was found by a Sky Guardian when I was a young boy. I was much too young to remember anything of my life before the hold or the events of the day of my finding, for that matter. My earliest memories are of the clan.” Cullen took a drink, staring almost pensively into the mug for a moment.

There were so many questions jostling for prominence on Dorian’s tongue, but he held it, not wanting to interrupt. He’d never heard this story. There were no rumors drifting through the hold about the foundling they’d taken in. Everyone treated Cullen like part of the clan. They’d made him their thane, for the Maker’s sake. Had it come from someone else, he might not have believed it. Having never known Cullen to lie, he had no choice but to accept it.

“The story goes that he was traveling through the lowlands, and on his way back to the hold, he came upon a scene of carnage. A family—a man, a woman, and a young girl—had been slaughtered around what he assumed was their campsite. Their bodies had sustained heavy injuries, as if whoever had killed them had been more beast than man. He searched the camp, looking for signs of what had befallen them, but he could find nothing. About to depart, he heard strange sounds from within a nearby thicket. He found a baby hidden there and not knowing what else to do, brought it back to the hold with him. The clan raised me, and on the day I became a man, the augur asked to see me.”

His gaze drifted toward the fire. “The augur told me that the gods had a message for me. They said that one day, a wolf would rise that would threaten all that I held dear and that when that happened, I would be called upon to fight a battle unlike any I could imagine. To fight this battle, the augur told me, the gods had given me three gifts. One of those was a fire that none could extinguish.”

So caught up in the story was Dorian that it took him a moment to realize what Cullen meant when he tapped a finger against his bicep. “This is meant to symbolize that fire.”

Now that he knew what he was looking at, Dorian could see it. The bold lines of black ink _did_ look like flames. A large conflagration not unlike the bonfire before them, made of a collection of angular lines with the largest stylized flame reaching up nearly to his shoulder.

“What were the other gifts?” Dorian asked, wondering where precisely this fire was kept and what it was made of.

“The strength and resilience of the mountains from Korth the Mountain-Father and Winter from Hakkon Wintersbreath,” Cullen supplied without any audible sign of pride.

“So it isn’t the mud that lets you tolerate the cold. It’s some kind of enchantment to resist it?”

Cullen shook his head. “No, that truly is the mud. Winter is what they call my blade.”

All this time and he’d never realized that the sword had a name. Though from the way Cullen spoke of it, the name wasn’t terribly important. _What they call my blade_ , he’d said, which made Dorian wonder if it had attained some kind of legendary status simply from the things Cullen had done with it.

"And the fire? Is that actual fire or a metaphor for something else?”

Uncertainty passed over Cullen’s expression. “A metaphor, I believe.”

“You believe?”

Shaking his head, Cullen softly chuckled. “I’ve no unquenchable flame hidden in the hold, Dorian. It is a gift from the Lady of the Skies and her gifts are usually not what they seem.”

Well, that was disappointing. He’d been looking forward to seeing such a thing. “So it’s your fiery lust for battle or some such?”

He nodded, still chuckling under his breath. “Something of that nature. When I’ve figured it out, I’ll be sure to tell you first.”

“You’d better,” Dorian told him with mock severity. “After all of that dramatic build-up, I expect to hear how this tale ends.

Perhaps it was his choice of phrasing—“dramatic build-up”—that prompted Cullen to do something so melodramatic, but he fisted his hand and pressed it against his chest, right over his heart. “You will be the first to learn of the ending. This I swear.”

Smiling despite himself, Dorian sought to cover it up with a shake of his head. “You know, in Tevinter, we’ve something a little less theatric we do when we make bargains like this.”

Cullen’s eyebrow quirked upward. “Oh?”

Dorian lifted his mug and held it out toward Cullen. At his somewhat blank stare, he nodded toward its counterpart. Cullen held up the mug and Dorian lightly tapped his own against it.

“To witnessing the denouement of your tale,” Dorian announced, grinning.

And Cullen, with a nod, tapped his mug against Dorian’s. Then together, they both drank.

* * *

“All right, you’ve drawn it out long enough,” Felix said with a huff. “What is this symbolic fire?”

“I honestly don’t know. The subject hasn’t come up again and I’ve yet to stumble upon some eternal flame burning merrily in a dark, forgotten corner of the hold.”

“But you’re looking for it, aren’t you?”

Dorian smiled. “I might be.” Teasing finished, he continued a bit more seriously, “Though only on occasion. I do believe him when he says it isn’t _actual_ fire.”

“Well, if you do find it—”

“Steal it and catch the first ship back to Tevinter so that you can see it,” Dorian finished for him, laughing. “Yes, I know.”

Felix’s rich laughter echoed through from the crystal and for a moment, all was right with the world. Or as right as it could be, given Felix’s health. But nothing lasted forever, especially moments like these, and as their laughter faded into warm silence, Dorian knew that the conversation had reached its end.

A moment later, Felix sighed. “I’ve got to go, Dorian. I can hear Father calling for me.”

“You’ll keep in touch, yes?” Dorian was careful to keep his voice light and casual. Sounding like he just wanted to make sure that Felix wouldn’t get so caught up in his treatise of the month  that he forget to say hello to his best friend once in a while was all right. Sounding as though he was worried about the progression of the Blight and wanted Felix to check in so that he knew that he was still alive was unacceptable. The popular lie was that Felix wasn’t going to die, and Felix pretended that it didn’t exist just like Dorian pretended that he believed it. 

“Of course,” Felix replied fondly, no doubt knowing exactly what Dorian meant. “Take care of yourself, Dorian. Don’t let Strong-Arms convince you to start wearing loincloths like a savage.”

Dorian’s laughter rang through the hut, his version of farewell before the crystal softly glowing in his palm went dim.

* * *

It was six months into his stay with Red-Lion Hold before Dorian finally met Avvar from another clan. He wasn't hold-bound; for someone who wasn't terribly keen on the outdoors, he spent quite a bit of time roaming the countryside with Cullen. Not hunting, he hadn't enjoyed the experience and wasn't looking to repeat it unless absolutely necessary, but there were dozens of other reasons Cullen left the hold. The largest, Dorian suspected, was an inability to sit still. He was a man of action, which made loitering around the hold to deal with menial problems a chore he wasn't overly fond of carrying out. Together, sometimes with Falkyr and sometimes accompanied by Selkor, the two of them would check up on clan members who lived apart from the hold, investigate strange sights, and generally explore the area. That last was more for Dorian's benefit than Cullen's, he already knew the Frostback Basin like the back of his hand, but he delighted in time spent away from his throne.

They never went to visit other holds, however. Dorian didn't care, he wasn't looking to get to know all of the Tevinter-hating clans in the region, and never suggested that they pay the neighbors a visit. It was Cullen who did that, one warm—or so the Avvar claimed—day into what passed for summer in the mountains.

Swift-River Hold was holding a three day long celebration in honor of one of their clan's gods and had invited Red-Lion to attend. The hold spent the week leading up to the event preparing; those who would visit and partake in the games of skill and strength training to perform to the best of their abilities and those who would remain getting as much of the work done as possible so that when a portion of the clan had departed, those left behind would not be overburdened. As thane, Cullen was of course going and he'd invited Dorian to accompany him. After some bit of cajoling, Dorian had agreed, partially due to his lingering curiosity over whether other southern barbarians were as strange as Cullen and his clan.

The rest of his motivation in attending was tied up in the prospect of seeing Cullen fight in the arena games at Swift-River Hold. Cullen had explained that it was customary for visiting thanes to compete with favorite warriors of the hosting clan, and while Dorian had watched him fight Wolfhold raiders and wild animals, he'd yet to see him pit his strength against another acclaimed warrior for entertainment's sake.  

When it came time to make the journey to the other hold, Dorian met the rest of the party at the gates of the hold. In deference to the “warm” temperatures, all of the assembled Avvar were wearing relatively little. All of them were thick-soled boots and loincloths. A number wore the strange shawl-vests that covered nothing but a strip of their shoulders and a narrow swath of skin across their backs. A few were wearing trousers made of a much thinner material than usual. Many were wearing war paint—though not mud—in a variety of designs across their faces, down their arms, and over their chests. Cullen, predictably, was wearing as little as possible, though he was wearing his bracers and his sword at his hip. The only war paint he wore was around his eyes: a dark band of black that made the gold of his irises even more striking than usual.

Unlike the Avvar, Dorian was dressed for the elements. His usual thick trousers, boots, a heavy-knit tunic and the one item of clothing that he hadn’t brought with him from Tevinter: a coat made of the smoothest, softest leather he’d ever touched. It had been a gift from Cullen two months ago, purchased from an Orlesian trader, after he’d refused for the hundredth time to wear the traditional furry monstrosities of the clan. Since it was apparently summer, he’d decided to forego adding his cloak on top of it in the spirit of the season.

And it was, quite frankly, a lovely coat. He doubted that the Swift-River clan would have  better fashion sense than Red-Lion, but since they were trying to make an impression, at least that's what he assumed from the way everyone had been carrying on, he was going to look his best whether anyone appreciated it or not.

There were two unfortunate nights of camping on the journey. Camping had never caught on with Dorian and he knew that it never would. Sleeping on the hard, uneven ground with only the walls of the tent between himself and the elements was not conducive to a good night's rest. Or anything else, for that matter. It was cold, uncomfortable, and there were always a plethora of odd, and at times downright alarming, noises from the regional wildlife. Cullen invited him to his campfire on those nights and they sat together until it was time to sleep, speaking with each other, the other members of the party, or simply sitting in companionable silence. Those few hours were by far the most pleasant part of the journey: sleeping went about as well as he expected it to and traveling through miles of forest and hills and mountains was exhausting.

But they made good time—Cullen set a wearying pace and stuck to it the entire time—and arrived at Swift-River Hold in the late afternoon, the day before the festivities were to begin. It was plenty of time to explore the hold, have a decent—by Avvar standards—meal, and get a good night’s rest in a real bed before the contests and revelry began.

Unlike Red-Lion Hold, Swift-River was not built on the side of a mountain. Like the name suggested, it was tucked in at the base of a mountain next to the river from which it had obviously taken its name. The river was wider than the one near Red-Lion, and true to the clan’s name, did run swiftly between its banks. A waterfall poured down from the mountain rock a short distance away. In the quiet of that first night, Dorian was able to hear the soft rush of the water as it descended to meet the river that would carry it far from the hold. The main staples of the clan’s diet seemed to consist of fish caught from the river, an assortment of fruits and vegetables that grew in the more temperate climate of the valley, and the meat of whatever they happened to catch in the forest.

Like Red-Lion Hold, Swift-River was comprised of wooden huts, some with crude shingled roofs and others woven of reeds and grasses. There were no caves, but the clan had made use of the nearby trees and had built a complex series of walkways and ladders around and between the massive trunks that connected platforms upon which rested other huts. From the look of it, daily life took place both upon and above the ground.

The people looked a lot like the Red-Lion clan, though because he’d spent so much time with them, Dorian was able to pick out enough consistent differences that he was certain an Avvar visiting from a different clan would be able to easily tell them apart. The Swift-River Avvar wore slightly less fur than their Red-Lion counterparts. Perhaps it was because it was what passed for summer but after walking through the hold, Dorian only found a few Avvar sporting fur-lined anything. What he saw in abundance were accessories woven with thick thread: bracelets, headbands, bands worn around thighs and upper arms, even a few necklaces that circled the wearer’s throat almost like a collar.

There was also a plethora of jewelry, comprised largely of shells and shiny stones. Men and women wore them in their hair. Many had earrings or long strings of them roped multiple times around their necks. It was an interesting enough look that Dorian resolved to see if he could secure one of those hair ornaments and convince Cullen to wear it when they got back to the hold. His hair had gotten longer since he met him and was just beginning to brush the top of his shoulders; Dorian couldn’t help thinking that he’d look nice with one of those sparkling strands of stones braided into a lock of his hair.

There wasn’t an overabundance of war paint on the day of their arrival, but Dorian noticed that instead of relying on the neutral tones favored by Red-Lion, the Swift-River Avvar weren’t afraid to add splashes of blues and greens to the designs. Once or twice he even saw shades of purple. Cullen was the only Red-Lion Avvar he’d ever seen wear a bold, bright color mixed into his paint and mud, and that was the single line of red that he suspected was meant to represent blood and make him appear more fearsome to his enemies.

The people themselves were friendly and welcoming. They even extended that welcome to Dorian, who was expecting significantly more wariness. But Cullen introduced him as a part of the clan and one of his closest friends, so aside from curious glances and some outright staring, the other Avvar made room for him just as easily as they did the Red-Lion Avvar.

At dinner that first night, one of the Avvar sitting near him asked where he’d come from before joining the clan. Dorian didn’t correct him that it was a temporary joining, not a permanent one, and after a subtle glance at Cullen, who met his look with a slight nod, he told the woman the truth. Instead of fear or hatred, he was met with more questions, until a small crowd grew around him, full of people asking what life was like in Tevinter and asking him to confirm or deny the rumors they’d heard about magisters. He only lied a little and only for dramatic effect. For the most part, he kept his answers honest, never painting the country or the people with a more complimentary brush than was deserved.

It was a pleasant surprise to find himself so well tolerated by yet another group of people who had a history of disliking his countrymen and when dinner came to an end and the Avvar dispersed to their huts, Dorian retired to his own in relatively good spirits. That was a good thing, since his hut was at the top of a rickety ramp that wound its way up the trunk of a tree until it reached a platform and the aforementioned hut, nestled in the large branches of the tree. Heights weren’t Dorian’s favorite thing, especially when all that stood between him and a painful, no doubt fatal fall was a collection of boards and beams of questionable construction. Cullen, passing on his way to his own high-built hut—all the visiting Avvar had been given shelter in these places of apparent honor—caught Dorian warily eyeing the ramp and assured him that it was safe. Their differing definitions of safe notwithstanding, the whole construction _did_ prove sturdy enough and Dorian reached the hut without incident.

He’d been expecting a long night of tossing and turning and listening for the cracking timber that would signify the hut crashing to the ground, but a few minutes after he got settled in the bed, Dorian fell into a surprisingly restful sleep.

The next two days passed in a blur. Dorian would be the first to agree that he drank far too much, but the wine—these Avvar had actual wine!—and mead flowed freely and after the terrible slop Red-Lion considered palatable, he felt he had months of taste-bud abuse to make up for. The food was good too, which he attributed to being different enough from Red-Lion’s standard fare to make it a novelty. His cup was always full, and as he wandered from one competition to another—rock hurling, archery, climbing the slippery rocks of the waterfall, swimming, scaling a tall gnarled tree, wrestling, riding large elk across unstable-looking ground, to name just a few—he frequently found some new morsel of food to try.

As he suspected, Cullen participated in every competition he could. Where the man got the energy to do so much with so little rest, Dorian couldn’t begin to guess. But after racing to the top of some ridiculously tall tree, he joined a group of Avvar in leaping from a cliff into a large pool of water, swimming to shore, and then climbing to the top of the waterfall. After that, he raced elk and pitched large stones and performed dizzying feats of balance on fallen logs over deep drops. Dispelling the notion that there was nothing he couldn’t do, Cullen didn’t always _win_ the tests of strength and skill—for instance, he could ride elk well enough but not nearly as expertly as one woman from Swift-River—but he threw himself into them with enthusiasm and performed to the best of his ability and when he lost, he grinned and laughed and slapped the victor on the back in sincere congratulations. Watching from the sidelines, cheering him on with a number of other Avvar, Red-Lion and Swift-River alike, Dorian could see why so many people liked him.

He was gregarious and friendly, he took losing good-naturedly, and he was as encouraging to his fellow competitors as he was with those he cheered on when he wasn’t competing. He was, Dorian realized early on during the first day, there to have fun, not to prove himself better at a particular skill, and his attitude was infectious. On more than one occasion, Dorian watched a competition that could have turned vicious suddenly shift to one of laughter and grins as Cullen aided a lagging participant or cheered a leader on.

It was as illuminating as it was entertaining. And it was doing nothing to diminish the feelings for the infuriating brute Dorian had been trying desperately to ignore. Like so many aspects of life, it just wasn’t fair. He was handsome, he was kind and generous, he had a body like some of the few non-dragon statues in Tevinter, and he was an impressively skilled warrior. Attraction Dorian could deal with, but it hadn’t taken very long before the desire to push him against the nearest flat surface had deepened into something truly disturbing.

Dorian was no stranger to wanting something he couldn’t have, but usually he could suitably distance himself from the object of his desire until he got over it or made peace with never having it. Short of leaving the hold entirely, he couldn’t distance himself from Cullen. And this experience was doing nothing but reinforcing his affection and longing.

More wine, it seemed, was necessary. And Dorian, ever ready to medicate his problems away with alcohol, was more than up to the task.

At night, he ate with the Avvar as though he belonged there. More often than not, Cullen was nearby, though he was always surrounded by admirers and Dorian tended to make himself scarce during such occasions. A contributing factor was the jealousy he couldn’t quite convince himself to ignore, whenever he saw a woman put her hand on Cullen’s arm or whisper something no doubt flirtatious in his ear and he responded with a smile or a laugh. The rest of it, thankfully, was slightly nobler. Cullen was having fun, visiting with people he didn’t get to see as often as maybe he would have liked, and Dorian, who could see him any time at the hold, didn’t want to monopolize his time.

Well, he _did_ , but he couldn’t make himself be selfish enough to do it.

Which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t without his own throng of interested Avvar. Between his exotic features and his stories of his homeland, and the largely absent fear of magic that was prevalent among the clans, Dorian discovered that he was quite popular himself. He even got a few invitations to spend the night, but he politely declined each time. Women simply weren’t to his tastes and the one man he caught looking at him with interest looked a little too much like Cullen—muscular, blond, shaggy hair—for his comfort. He very deliberately did not take notice of where Cullen spent his nights, retiring early on each one so that he wouldn’t have to watch him take anyone back to his hut with him. And in the mornings, Dorian made sure to sleep too late to risk running into Cullen and whoever might have kept him company.

On the third day, as he was standing before the brewmaster’s hut, trying to decide if he wanted to risk the mead or stay faithful to the delicious wine, Cullen appeared at his side.

“Are you enjoying the celebration, my friend?” he asked, slinging an arm around Dorian’s shoulders and tugging him in for a one-armed embrace.

Recognizing that he was pathetic for taking what he could get and not giving a damn, Dorian put an arm around his waist and squeezed back. “It’s tolerable,” he told him, with a crooked smile so that Cullen would know that he was, in fact, enjoying himself and simply downplaying that enjoyment.

Cullen grinned. “Are you going to try your skill in the arena today?”

Dorian stared at him. “Is that a serious question?”

“Aye.”

Another moment of silence passed as Dorian searched his face for the joke. He didn’t find it. “I’m a mage,” he reminded him slowly. “Not a warrior.”

Either he was playing stupid or extensive physical activity had lowered his intellect. “You are a warrior mage.”

“Battlemage,” Dorian corrected him absently. “And that’s beside the point. Also not the same thing.”

Undeterred by this information, Cullen shrugged. “It matters not. I would dance with you before the gods and all assembled.”

It was comments like this that really got under Dorian’s skin sometimes. Taken literally, that was the kind of sentiment he had so often wanted to hear directed to him by a good-looking man in Tevinter. But of course, here in the muddy south, language didn’t mean the same thing it did in civilized countries. _Dance_ , Cullen said, and Dorian’s head was filled with images of an elegant waltz in front of the entire magisterium at one of the Archon’s Satinalia parties or something far more suggestive and inappropriate in the privacy of his estate. But dancing to Cullen, he’d discovered, inexplicably meant fighting, even though he’d heard him use the word to describe actual dancing more than once.

Mustering the patience to broaden Cullen’s cultural horizons was difficult without the added bolster of wine, but Dorian heaved a sigh and heroically made the attempt. “Asking a man from the north to dance has an entirely different meaning than what you’re suggesting and you know it.” Removing his arm from where it had lingered against Cullen’s back, Dorian folded both of his own over his chest. “And surely even you know how long a defenseless mage might last against a seasoned warrior.”

Cullen gave him a look that was barely humoring. “Do you forget that I’ve seen you fight? You are far from defenseless.”

That was true. In a real fight, Dorian had magic and a staff at his disposal. In a mock battle for the entertainment of Avvar, he would have, what? Perhaps a staff. But Cullen couldn’t actually expect him to use his magic.

“Were I to fight in earnest, I could kill you,” he pointed out.

Without missing a beat, Cullen grinned. “You have seen _me_ fight.”

It was too early in the afternoon to deal with this. Dorian sighed, lifting a hand to rub irritably at his forehead. “You truly want me to fight you? With magic?”

Throughout the exchange, Cullen hadn’t lifted his arm from his shoulders. Now, he slid it to the side so that he could grip the shoulder nearest him. It was a gesture Dorian recognized as Cullen about to get extremely earnest; he sighed, settling in to hear whatever stupidity he was about to say.

“I would meet with you on the grounds of the arena with the weapons the gods favored us.” Cullen was looking him in the eyes from a very short distance. Despite common sense and his determination to get over his ridiculous infatuation, Dorian still felt his heart foolishly picking up speed. “A true dance, Dorian. Not a mockery of one.”

The sad truth was, Dorian didn’t have the strength to deny Cullen when he did things like this. Throwing up his hands dramatically, Dorian exclaimed, “Fine! If that’s what you want, fine.” He glared at him with mock severity. “Just don’t get upset with me if you get burned.”

From the very first time Dorian had threatened to set him on fire, Cullen had met the prospect with enthusiasm instead of an appropriate amount of trepidation. Today was no different. And by this point, he’d _had_ a taste of it. He should have known better.

With a pat of his hand, Cullen pulled back. “Go get your staff and meet me at the arena.”

“What, now?”

Cullen smiled knowingly. “I’ll not give you an opportunity to back out.”

Dorian rolled his eyes in disgust. “I accepted your challenge, you uncouth savage. I won’t back out.” 

Grinning, Cullen turned and started heading off in a direction that Dorian assumed would either take him to the arena or to his hut to retrieve his sword. “A quarter of an hour, Dorian,” he tossed happily over his shoulder. “Don’t be late.”

Much as he would have liked to have been, Dorian wasn’t late. He’d gone straight to his hut to get his staff and then he’d made his way to the arena. It was set in a clearing just outside the hold proper, not far from the waterfall. The sound of it was louder here than it was in the hold, providing a constant source of background noise. The arena itself was similar in construction to the one at Red-Lion Hold: a large circle outlined by a high stockade fence with a high set of risers positioned at one side for spectators to sit on. Inside the fence was a portion of ground. In Red-Lion Hold, it was uneven, carved into the side of the mountain as it was, and littered with large boulders. Here, it was relatively flat, carpeted in tall grass and without a lot of natural obstacles. 

Word of the coming battle had spread fast through the hold. By the time Dorian reached the arena, the risers were packed full with Avvar from both clans. In fact, it looked as though the entire hold had stopped what it was doing to come watch the bout. It was both intimidating and exciting; Dorian always had enjoyed being the center of attention and he couldn’t deny a tiny thrill at the prospect of publically teaching Cullen how foolish it was to go up against an Altus mage like this.

Dorian entered from one side, Cullen from the other. The distance that separated them was rather large, but he could still see him clearly enough. His sword was in his hand, glowing with its strange green light, and his face and chest were decorated with the swirling patterns of his war paint. _No trousers again_ , Dorian thought inanely, and had to bite back the amused smile he could feel tugging at his mouth.

Cullen was scanning the layout of the arena when he walked in, ignoring the cheers from the assembled Avvar. Dorian, watching him more than the unchanging landscape, noticed the moment when he stopped looking at the ground and focused on him. He was too far away to track the path of his eyes, but the way he smiled, a kind of exhilarated baring of his teeth, that gave away that he’d spotted his opponent.

Despite Cullen’s assertion that he wanted a “true dance,” Dorian had decided on his way to the arena to ignore such reckless stupidity and hold back out of the simple desire not to accidentally kill him. Cullen, he discovered when the battlemaster announced the fight begun, had made no such decision.

Like they were the ancient enemies the Avvarian culture claimed them to be, Cullen came at him like he meant to kill him. He was fast, _very_ fast, and when he lashed out with his sword, only a quickly erected barrier kept it from cutting into Dorian’s flesh.

“Don’t hold back,” Cullen murmured as he pivoted to center his footing.

So Dorian, not to be outdone, didn’t.

Before Cullen could regain his balance, Dorian swept the blade of his staff toward his ankles, knocking his feet right out from under him. Cullen went down and Dorian leaped back, opening up enough space between them to summon a fireball that wouldn’t immediately burn Cullen’s face off. But Cullen was back on his feet with astonishing speed and he caught the fireball with his sword, which blazed with brilliant emerald light as it swatted the fire aside. After that, the fight stopped being a coherent series of actions and became a whirl of sights and sensations.

Cullen executing an impressive sword stroke and the jarring vibration that shook his hands as he brought the haft of his staff up to catch it. The crystal on the top of the staff spit sparks as the staff’s enchantment clashed against the sword’s, but neither weapon broke and across their point of joining, Cullen smiled wildly at him.

The disorienting freefall of his boot slipping in the grass and pitching him backward and the smell of ozone that filled his nostrils as he threw a bolt of lightning at Cullen to distract him until he’d gotten back to his feet.

Blistering heat from a wall of fire he raised from the ground to halt Cullen’s advance and buy him some time to retreat to a different part of the arena.

Ringing peals of laughter as Dorian sent spirits to terrorize and distract Cullen and he refused to be unsettled by the horrors they whispered while he dispatched them with his sword.

The swelling roar of the crowd as the fight continued without abating, Cullen facing down every spell Dorian leveled against him and Dorian torching half the arena with his fire.

A drop of sweat sliding down his back, following the curve of his spine and tickling briefly against the small of his back.

He soon lost track of how long they’d been fighting and the noise of the crowd had dissolved so far into the background that Dorian couldn’t hear it properly as the cheers and shouts that it was. His entire focus was centered on Cullen: which way he was going to move, whether the sword was going to come into play or not, whether he’d sustained any serious injury.

Thankfully, so far the injuries were negligible. A few scratches from the tip of Dorian’s staff blade were scattered across Cullen’s limbs and a faint line of red flesh cut a jagged line from his ribs to his abdomen where a bolt of lightning had scored him, but nothing that caused him to falter or look pained. Dorian bore a few nicks from Cullen’s sword and he could feel his skin bruising at his hip where he took a kick, but none of that was worth being concerned about.

Large swaths of grass were charred from Dorian’s fire and a line of flames still burned near the back of the arena. A wild lightning bolt had blackened part of the fencing. The faintly pleasant smell of burning grass and smoke lingered in the cool air. It was, Dorian had to admit within the privacy of his mind, fun to let go like this. He would have to remember to thank Cullen for giving him the opportunity.

Their momentary reprieve came to an end as Cullen broke from the circling pattern they’d fallen into and lunged at him. Dorian jabbed at him with his staff, looking to drive him back, and Cullen smacked it away with his sword. At the last second, as he felt his grip on it loosening too much, Dorian gave the shaft a vicious twist that caught the sword and sent both weapons spinning out into the grass.

Flames crackled between his fingers, but before Dorian could loose the fire at him, Cullen abandoned the sword and tackled him to the ground. Dorian’s breath left him in a rush, though he managed to get an elbow between them and drove it into Cullen’s ribs. That bought him a few seconds of wiggle room. Twisting out from underneath him, Dorian kneed him in the shoulder, and when Cullen flopped over onto his back, he pounced, straddling his hips and bearing him the rest of the way to the dirt.

Looking down at Cullen through his disheveled hair, Dorian grinned and brought up his hand, summoning fire to his fingers again. The other braced against Cullen’s shoulder to hold himself steady. “I believe this round is mine, Thane Wolf-Bane.”

Cullen’s lips hiked up into an inappropriately triumphant smirk, and faster than Dorian could follow it, he got a hand between them and twisted with his hips, throwing Dorian off of him and onto his back. Following swiftly, Cullen was on him before his vision cleared, sitting heavily on his hips and leaning over him, the cold edge of a knife pressed to his throat.

Breathing hard, refusing to let himself be unnerved by the illusion of menace the blade against his throat created, Dorian stared up at him, heart pounding and fingers itching to... He wasn’t sure what the impulse was. Summon more fire? Send a bolt of lightning down on them both? Thread his fingers through Cullen’s sweaty, tangled hair and drag his smirking mouth down for a savage kiss?

“Well?” Cullen purred in a low, velvety voice that made Dorian’s stomach flip. He leaned closer, so close Dorian thought he was going to kiss him. His eyes were mostly black, with only the thinnest strip of gold iris visible around the edge of his pupils. _Just excitement from the fight_ , Dorian thought with a curl of disappointment. “Do you yield?”

“I could still set you on fire, you know,” Dorian whispered back, ignoring how ragged his voice sounded.

He could actually feel the deep rumble of Cullen’s laughter where their chests were pressed together. “So you keep threatening,” Cullen murmured fondly.

If he made good on the threat and called on the fire, he would win. And Maker, but he was tempted to do it, if for no other reason than because Dorian wasn’t averse to cheating when the situation called for it. Winning a fight against an Avvar thane in front of his fellow Avvar seemed like the perfect situation. Yet Cullen _had_ won the fight fairly. It wouldn’t cost him anything to admit it.

They looked at each other for a moment, Dorian searching Cullen’s eyes and trying to ignore the way it felt to breathe in tandem with him. Then, Dorian tipped his chin back, deliberately showing Cullen more of his throat. Because he was still looking at him, he noticed how sharp and downright feral the look in his eyes became at the gesture. It sent a flare of heat through his gut, but he knew better than to try to pursue it.

“I yield,” he told him quietly.

Sitting back on his haunches, Cullen lifted his arms into the air as the crowd of Avvar went crazy, cheering so loud that the noise drowned out any possibility of saying anything to Cullen. Amidst the roar of the crowd, he looked down at him, still smiling, and cupped the side of Dorian’s neck with one hand. On a lover, it would have been a tender gesture. From Cullen, he knew that he was simply checking to make sure that he hadn’t hurt him with the knife.

“I’m fine,” Dorian told him, enunciating the words carefully so that he could read his lips over the din.

Cullen studied him for a moment, then nodded and rose to his feet. Once he’d stepped aside, he offered Dorian his hand and hauled him to his feet. He kept a hold of his elbow as Dorian patted himself down and collected his balance.

“You dance well,” Cullen murmured in his ear, stepping close so that he could be heard over the shouting Avvar.

Dorian snorted, flashing him a smirk of his own. “I’ve had excellent teachers.”

The gates to the arena opened and a flood of Avvar poured in to offer congratulations. To Dorian’s surprise, more than a few clustered around to offer the same to him. He’d fought well, was the common refrain, and his magical skill was most impressive. Collecting his staff, Dorian had allowed himself a few minutes to preen from the compliments. He hadn’t won, but the Avvar weren’t being ingratiating. They truly were impressed by his abilities and he had always appreciated recognition for his skills.

It was as he was exiting the arena, leaving Cullen behind with the horde of celebrating Avvar, that he overheard one man tell another with good-humored envy that Cullen would have his pick of the hold tonight. Knowing he should leave it alone, Dorian’s curiosity got the better of him and he inquired about what the man had meant. Grinning, the man explained that victors in the arena always had plenty of offers for bed partners afterward and Cullen, being good-looking and a thane, would not want for someone to bed after that performance. Plastering a fake smile on his face, Dorian had agreed that he was a lucky man and made as hasty a departure as he could without being obvious about it.

_It figures_ , he thought darkly as he made his way back to his hut. _I would end up helping him bed the most eligible woman in the hold._

More than anything, Dorian wanted a bath after all that sweating and rolling around in the dirt. But there was a celebratory feast to attend, and since he’d demonstrated considerable skill as well, the Avvar of course wanted him to be there. Which meant sitting across from Cullen and watching as he sorted through his offers. In an effort to avoid that, Dorian staked out a part of the square as his own, well away from the center of the feasting where he knew Cullen would be. By the time the man of the hour made it out of the arena and into the square, the place was so full that there was no chance of him finding a seat anywhere near Dorian.

Once or twice during dinner, Dorian saw him looking at him, but he pretended that he didn’t notice and carried on speaking to the Avvar around him as if he hadn’t a care in the world. A few of them flirted with him, and although he wasn’t about to act on any of it, Dorian flirted back simply for the pleasure of it. And as soon as the opportunity to make his escape arrived, he took it, absconding from the revelry with a bottle of wine and hurrying to his hut without a backward glance.

All in all, it’d been a good day and he wasn’t looking to ruin it by chancing a run-in with Cullen and his paramour for the evening.

Once safely inside the hut, Dorian opened the bottle, took a healthy swig of wine straight from it like an uncouth barbarian himself, and gestured at the fire, setting it to blazing. How the Avvar ensured that the fires in their huts didn’t catch the whole thing on fire and burn down hut and tree both, he didn’t know and for once didn’t care to question. Trusting it would be fine to strengthen the fire was about all the interest in the subject he could generate.

He didn’t have to wait long for the fire to chase away the chill inside the hut. Soon it was warm enough to shed his jacket, and after consuming what amounted to a glass of wine, the shirt underneath came off too. A wash basin on a stand wasn’t a hot spring by any stretch of the imagination, but it would do until they returned to Red-Lion Hold.

A tiny bit of magic warmed the water in the basin and Dorian immediately dipped a cloth into it. Wringing off the excess water, he scrubbed it over his face, taking off what felt like veritable _layers_ of grime. His neck was next, then his chest, and while it was nothing like a leisurely bath, it was better than nothing.

He was just running the newly rewetted cloth over his arms when he heard footsteps on the platform outside the hut. Before he could decide whether he wanted to reach for his staff or not, the door opened with nary a knock or a muffled call of greeting and admitted Cullen.

Eyebrows rising in surprise, he truly hadn’t expected to see him until the morning, Dorian shot him a curious look, hand with the cloth pausing at his elbow. “Come to gloat over your victory?” he asked lightly.

Cullen said nothing, though Dorian noticed for the first time that his eyes were intently focused on him. And they stayed that way as, without waiting for an invitation to enter, he stalked inside the hut. His forward momentum was arrested just for a split second, long enough to push the door shut behind him. Then he was moving across the floor directly toward Dorian. It was somewhat disconcerting, finding himself the focus of that fixed gaze, and it only got more unnerving as the silence remained unbroken.

Dorian didn’t move from his place by the wash basin, torn between the stubborn refusal to give ground to anyone that acted in an intimidating manner toward him and the fact that he literally couldn’t back up without going through the wall. He wanted to ask Cullen what was going on, but the words stuck in his throat, his tongue oddly too thick and clumsy all of a sudden to shape them.

He didn’t know what to expect when Cullen reached him, but he knew that it certainly wasn’t for Cullen to snatch the cloth out of his hand and toss it into the basin. Or for him to grab him by the upper arms and bear him away from the table and back into the wall next to it without a word. In theory, Dorian wasn’t opposed to a little manhandling, provided it was the exciting sort, but Cullen’s bizarre behavior, coupled with his own admittedly childish jealousy over whatever he intended to do later that night with some random woman of the hold, made him less inclined to tolerate it.

Brow furrowing, feeling a prickle of anger rising within him and sharpening his tongue, Dorian opened his mouth to deliver a scathing lecture about common courtesy and how this wasn’t even remotely close to it. But then Cullen’s mouth was on his, kissing him with all the feral abandon he would expect from a barbarian. Taken thoroughly by surprise, Dorian’s mind momentarily blanked on any possible reaction he could have to this. Meanwhile, teeth nipped sharply at his lips, and before the sting could even make him gasp in shock, Cullen’s tongue forcibly parted them and delved inside. It was an all-consuming, utterly possessive kiss, so fierce that it made Dorian’s head spin as he struggled to catch up.

Just as Cullen was starting to ease off of the kiss, Dorian finally shook off his bewildered paralysis. His hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up, tangled into Cullen’s hair, and pulled him back in for another. This time, it was Dorian’s tongue slipping into Cullen’s mouth and once within it, he took full advantage. His tongue stroked over Cullen’s, then curled around it and sucked. Cullen’s hands fell to his hips; distantly, he could feel the firm grip he took on him, but the sensation was vastly overpowered by the taste of Cullen’s mouth. He tasted like the Avvar wine that Dorian had come to appreciate: unnamed spices and the sharp tang of berries, as addicting and intoxicating as the wine itself.

As he tightened one hand in Cullen’s hair and tugged his head just slightly to the side to get a better angle for deepening the kiss, he slid the other down along his neck and over the broad planes of his shoulders. The muscles quivered under his touch and Cullen pressed forward, pinning him to the wall as he rocked his hips into him. Already he could feel his cock hardening against his hip; the realization of what precisely it was that he was feeling made him groan softly into Cullen’s mouth.

In response, Cullen made a low, gravelly noise that Dorian could have sworn was a growl and pulled away. The absence of his mouth made Dorian hiss in displeasure, but that sound was cut off an instant later, as Cullen set his lips against the side of Dorian’s throat. He licked and kissed a path down along the tendon, and as much as Dorian missed kissing his lips, he enjoyed the way they felt against his skin. Head tipping back against the wall, he closed his eyes to better feel the juxtaposition of Cullen’s soft lips and slick tongue and the scratchy prickle of his stubbly chin.

He had no idea what had brought this on. Six months they’d known each other and all of Dorian’s flirting had been met with a casual friendliness that hadn’t suggested that Cullen had felt even a modicum of attraction to him. And now he was practically devouring him. They should talk about it. Dorian should be asking him what he was doing, whether he was sober and knew what he was doing, what—if anything—this meant. But the majority of Dorian’s life had been lived in defiance of what he _should_ do and in fulfillment of what he _wanted_ to do.

Right now, and for nearly the whole of the last half of the year, he’d wanted to kiss Cullen. Whatever came after, he would deal with it when it happened. Now that he was finally getting what he wanted, he wasn’t about to stop it for a heart-to-heart that he knew he probably didn’t want to hear anyway.

A frisson of pleasure-pain lanced through him, yanking him out of his momentary lapse into distraction, and he came back to the present to feel a faintly throbbing warmth beneath his skin where his shoulder met his neck. Swiftly on the heels of the sensation came the realization that Cullen had just bitten him, likely hard enough to bruise.

It shouldn’t have been erotic. It should have been infuriating to have his smooth skin marked by the man. Dorian merely growled an unintelligible noise and pulled him back in for a hard, demanding kiss.

Cullen’s hands left his hips to run up along his sides, then immediately reversed course and slid back down to tug him in against him. He was harder now, Dorian noted, then rolled his hips against him, rubbing his own erection against Cullen’s cock. It interrupted the ferocity of the kiss, the friction making both of them moan.

Dorian wanted to touch every inch of him. He wanted to spend hours lavishing attention over each and every one of those well-formed muscles. But his arousal was spiking impatiently and Cullen’s insistent hands, working between them and fumbling at the laces of his trousers, wasn’t helping to calm his libido.

Abandoning Cullen’s hair and the control it lent to the kiss, Dorian swept his hands down over Cullen’s muscular sides to that stupid fur-lined loincloth. He gained a new appreciation for it then, when he discovered how easy it was to slip his hand beneath it and grasp the thick, hot length of Cullen’s cock. He hadn’t realized just how hard he was until he had his hand on him and he spent a moment slowly sliding his palm along the silky-soft flesh, enjoying the feeling of it.

Cullen’s hips bucked into his hand halfway through his appreciative exploration, his low groan bitten off against Dorian’s lips. For a few seconds, he fucked into Dorian’s hand, taking his pleasure himself since the pace of Dorian set with his hand was too slow. Smiling against his mouth, Dorian leaned forward, wanting to get closer at the same time as he wanted to switch places so that he could get a better look at Cullen. A better look and better access; his mouth was almost watering with the desire to get it around his cock.

For a moment, he thought he was going to succeed in maneuvering them around. Then Cullen jerked back and pushed him into the wall again. Before Dorian could snap at him, Cullen’s mouth was on him again and this time he didn’t linger at his throat. He moved down to Dorian’s collarbone, licked the hollow and grazed the ridge with his teeth, then continued on. When his lips brushed over his nipple, the tension went out of him and Dorian slumped back against the wall. Soft lips became an insistently licking tongue, and when the attention hardened his nipple, Cullen bit it hard enough to make Dorian hiss.

Cullen’s hands were back on his trousers, tugging them down over his hips. Dorian blamed the lust fogging his brain that it wasn’t until he felt the cool air on his cock that he began to get an inkling of Cullen’s intent. The material was stripped from his legs, Cullen pausing in the middle of licking his navel to lift first one foot, then the other, and pull the trousers off of him completely. There was no teasing seduction. Once the trousers were out of the way, Cullen nudged his thighs further apart and licked a broad strip up from the base of his cock to the tip.

The burst of pleasure made Dorian’s knees weak and his half-hearted attempt to gasp Cullen’s name turned into a deep groan.

“Look at me,” Cullen commanded, the first words he’d spoken since entering the hut. It was that as much as it was the tone that demanded obedience that made Dorian open his eyes and look down at him.

The sight nearly made him moan again. Cullen was on his knees before him, shameless, his lips red and swollen from the fierceness of their kisses and his eyes black with lust. The tip of Dorian’s cock was a hairsbreadth from his mouth and as Dorian watched, he parted his lips and sucked on it. Exhaling a shaky breath, Dorian’s eyes started to slide closed again.

A sharp pinch of nails digging into the tender flesh of his inner thighs made them snap open. Cullen was watching him intently. “ _Look at me_ ,” he said again, this time little more than a growl and Dorian, mouth dry, could only nod.

And watch as Cullen took his cock into his mouth. It was hot and wet and his tongue was firm against the underside. He slid up and down his cock like he’d done it before, sucking at the tip until his cheeks hollowed. Before he knew it, Dorian’s hands were back in Cullen’s hair, fingers curling tightly in the long strands. He was holding on more than he was directing the movement of Cullen’s head, but he ended up pulling on his hair anyway. Expecting a rebuke, he got a hum of approval that shot through his cock and tightened his balls until a sound suspiciously like a whimper escaped from his throat.

As Cullen’s lips slid back down his shaft, Dorian lost control of himself and nudged forward deeper into the heat of his mouth. His hands clamped like a vise around his hips and held him still, which was unexpectedly arousing.

“Cullen…” This time, he managed to say his name clearly enough. “Cullen, _please._ ”

He couldn’t form the words to finish the plea. _More. Go faster. Harder_. Something. Anything. He needed more everything. And Cullen, bastard that he was, pulled off of him entirely. Dorian didn’t care that he whined a protest. That was _cruel._

Cullen said nothing, didn’t look even remotely remorseful for being such a tease. He merely looked at him for a moment, lips slick with spit, then rose to his feet and spun Dorian around before he could protest.

“Wha—” He started, only to find himself facing the wall with Cullen’s mouth on the back of his neck. The sharp pinch of teeth made his mouth shut with a clack and he started to reach back for him.

Catching his wrists, Cullen lifted his hands and pressed them against the wall above his head. He squeezed his wrists, the message clear: _Keep them here_.

Uttering a noise of protest, Dorian shook his head. “I want—”

Cullen bit him again until he yelped, then growled, “Don’t move.”

Wordlessly, Dorian nodded and after a pointed pause, Cullen released his wrists.

It really shouldn’t have been as arousing as it was. He’d had rough partners before, those more concerned with getting their own pleasure as quickly as possible so they could disappear as soon as the deed was done, and he didn’t overly enjoy it. But this was nothing like that. Cullen wasn’t ignoring his desires for the sake of his own. He was tending to them in the manner he chose and at the moment, it was clear that he didn’t want Dorian’s help or interference. And Dorian was more than willing to let him take the lead here, if it meant that he would keep touching him the way that he was.

Mouth gentling against his neck, Cullen began to kiss a path down the length of his spine. Dorian couldn't feel his hands on him any longer and wondered in a vaguely abstracted kind of way what he was doing with them. Taking off the loincloth? Some bizarre Avvar ritual to appease whatever gods happened to be lurking in the bedchamber? He couldn't be confident that any guess he hazarded was close to the truth and an attempt to glance over his shoulder only gave him a glimpse of Cullen's hair.

Cullen's knee nudged his legs further apart and Dorian complied without resistance. Instead of dulling his arousal with this meandering trail of kisses, the anticipation of what was to follow was heightening it, sharpening it to a razor's edge and filling Dorian with an anxious impatience. By the time Cullen's lips brushed his tailbone, his hands were clenched into fists and he was breathing so hard that he was nearly panting. His cock hung heavily between his legs, aching for friction and receiving none.

Something cool and slick slid between the cheeks of his ass, startling him out of his frustration. At first he thought it Cullen's tongue, but as it trailed along such tender, sensitive skin, Dorian realized it was his finger. As the tip of it brushed against his hole, Dorian trembled against the almost overpowering impulse to push back against it. Cullen's finger circled it, tracing the muscle until Dorian groaned with impatience.

"Stop teasing," he hissed, glancing over his shoulder again in time to see Cullen straighten up behind him.

"You think me teasing?" He sounded surprised. "I mean to claim you this night."

It was just seven words, but they sunk deep into his gut and stirred the fiery heat of Dorian's lust into an inferno. "Do it then," he challenged, voice so low Cullen had to hear his arousal. "Unless you plan to simply talk about it all—"

Dorian broke off with a gasp as Cullen's finger plunged into him. It was too slippery and Cullen's movement was too controlled to cause him pain, the sensation merely catching him by surprise with the suddenness of it. But that gasp quickly turned into a soft moan of pleasure as Cullen began working it in and out of him, fucking him with first one finger, then two, then just as he was about to snap at him to get on with it, three. All were just as slippery as the first, and somewhere in the whirl of pleasure, Dorian realized he'd slicked them with something. Probably during all that kissing earlier.

Just as suddenly as Cullen had penetrated him, he withdrew his fingers, leaving Dorian bracing himself against the wall, sucking in great lung-fulls of air and feeling like he was going to scream if this kept up for much longer. But Cullen wasn't preparing to change their positions again or looking for new ways to make Dorian feel frustratingly unfulfilled. He was preparing himself, evidently, because in a few seconds, Dorian felt the blunt head of his cock pressing up against his ass.

He shuddered as the crown of it slipped inside, lighting his nerves on fire with an overload of sensation, then stopped breathing all together as Cullen continued pressing forward, slowly stretching him open and filling him so completely that when he finally remembered to exhale, his breath left him in shaky, broken puffs of air.

Cullen stopped moving only when the top of his thighs met the back of Dorian's, and for a moment, there he stayed, slick hands gripping Dorian's hips. But it was only a moment. He didn't wait for Dorian to tell him to move, he started on his own: slow, shallow rolls of his hips that built in strength and speed until he was rocking into him, his cock plunging relentlessly into Dorian with every forward snap of his hips.

Dorian could barely catch his breath. His chest heaved with the effort, but every time the head of Cullen's cock rubbed over that one particular cluster of nerves inside him, pleasure splintered through him so fast that his breath caught and staggered even more. He tried to find a rhythm to match Cullen's, but after a few disruptive attempts that made Cullen grip his hips harder to still him, he gave up and let himself be fucked.

And oh, how Cullen fucked him.

He was relentless. As untiring here in the hut as he'd been on the field of competition the last three days. His pace never faltered, he never had to pause to catch his breath, and before Dorian knew it, he was approaching orgasm. It wasn't quite enough to reach it, and he whined softly in frustration, finding the words necessary to demand Cullen touch him too difficult to pronounce at the moment. Cullen understood, however, and reached around him to circle his cock with his still slippery hand.

Desperation gave Dorian the coordination to move now. He rocked his hips forward, pushing himself into Cullen's hand every time Cullen's cock pressed into him and soon they found a rhythm that reduced Dorian to shallow gasps and sharp, impatient thrusts of his hips. His fingers unfurled from fists, practically clawing at the wall as the pleasure wound tighter and tighter within him. He was panting in earnest, _so damn close_ and yet still frustratingly unable to reach his peak. Then Cullen's teeth closed around his shoulder and that was it. That was the spark of too much sensation that finally pushed him far enough.

His hips stuttered jerkily as his orgasm flooded through him, his body trying to wring every last pulse of pleasure from it that it could. And Cullen helped, his hand steadily stroking him through it, hips fucking him even as his ass clenched around his cock. For a time—long or short, it had lost all meaning now—it was all he could do to hold himself up. Then even that became too much.

It was only after he slumped bonelessly against the wall, held in place more by Cullen's body and hands than his own decision, that Cullen released his cock. Not a moment too soon, either, as the continued friction against his oversensitized flesh had been edging too close to far too much. It seemed then that he redoubled his efforts, focusing on chasing down his own orgasm now that Dorian was adrift in the aftermath of his. The rhythm of his thrusts grew erratic, and this time when the head of his cock brushed over those nerves once more, Dorian groaned softly, not quite a protest but no longer a mindless sound of arousal either.

Fortunately, the onslaught of sensation didn't last. A few more demanding thrusts and he felt the warmth of Cullen spilling inside him, even as he felt him lean forward to rest his forehead against the back of his neck, sighing in satisfaction. His hips jerked a couple more times, shallow, short movements, then finally stilled completely.

Dorian could feel the rapid hammering of his heart where Cullen's chest was pressed against his back. And he could hear the quick, panting breaths he took as much as feel the warmth of each exhale puffing into his sweaty skin. Somehow, despite Cullen leaning so heavily on him, they both remained upright.

After his own breathing had slowed enough to manage it, Dorian attempted to say his name. Unfortunately, it failed, the lungful of air he'd taken in leaving his mouth as a sigh instead of a name. In response, Cullen grunted softly, then began to withdraw. Dorian made a quiet sound of protest, then repeated it a bit louder when he felt Cullen's softening cock slip out of him, but Cullen said nothing, only gathered him in his arms and—perhaps he imagined this bit, still half drunk on the intensity of his orgasm—carried him to the bed.

There were warm furs all around him, and the solid, warm expanse of Cullen's body beside him. Closing his eyes, not caring if he was imagining it, Dorian lethargically turned toward him, curled in against his side and, without attempting to say any of the things he really needed to say to him after this, promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Dorian awoke in the middle of a deliciously explicit dream of being fucked by Cullen. It wasn't the first such dream he'd had, but given the likelihood of ever having dream become reality, he was disgruntled that he couldn't at least remain asleep long enough for them both to come. But at least the dream lingered, the feeling of fullness and the gentle rolling rhythm of Cullen's hips fucking into him followed him up through the darkness of unconsciousness. So strong was the dream that it lingered even after he'd slowly opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming in through the slats in the shutter across the hut’s window.

And realized so abruptly that it woke him up entirely that he really _was_ being fucked. Right then. There was a thick, hard cock working its leisurely way in and out of him and hard, muscular thighs pressing in against the back of his own. There were lips laying haphazard, sloppy kisses across the back of his shoulder and a stubbly jaw brushing against his skin over and over again.

Even as his mind struggled to process the fact that his dream hadn't been a dream at all, but a combination of the memories of last night and the current events of the morning, questing fingers groped over the jut of his hip and felt around between his legs until they closed around his cock, mostly hard and getting harder as that callused palm stroked up and down the length of it. Quite unbidden, Dorian uttered a soft moan and arched back into the press of Cullen's cock.

"Is this a dream?" It was like a scene from one of his fantasies; he couldn't yet convince himself to believe it was truly happening.

"If it is," Cullen's voice, raspy from sleep, murmured against his shoulder. "I don't wish to wake from it." 

"And last—" He broke off as a strong current of pleasure ran through his core, fed by the way Cullen was working him. "Last night?" He tried again. "That happened too?"

A low chuckle was at first the only answer he received to the question. Then, after a few more languid thrusts of his hips, Cullen added, "Does this feel like your imagination, Dorian?"

"No," he answered, humming the word more than enunciating it. He gave an experimental roll of his hips and sighed in pleasure as it shifted him back more fully onto Cullen's cock and added another shade of friction to the loose pumping of his hand. "Though I'm, ah... quite imaginative and this... mmm, this comes close."

Perhaps he should have let well enough alone. He was getting what he’d been wanting. It should have been enough to have Cullen’s friendship and this unexpected experience. But Dorian was selfish and starved for affection. _True_ affection, not the fake, conditional sort that was stock and trade in Tevinter. Now that he had everything, he didn’t want to let it go. Beyond that, he needed to know. Even if the answer he received from his questioning wasn’t the one he wanted.

“Cullen?” he murmured, cursing himself for his inability to let it go at least until they’d finished this.

“Hm?” The steady rocking of his hips didn’t stop and the pace was slow enough that he could speak without difficulty.

_Shut up_ , Dorian scolded himself. _Just shut up._ “We need to talk.”

Cullen chuckled softly against his shoulder. “Are we not talking now?”

“Yes, but...” The hand leisurely pumping his cock started to slow and Dorian impatiently bucked his hips forward to keep him moving. Once he was sure that he wasn’t going to stop, he continued. “But after, I...”

He wondered, as Cullen hummed a soft, agreeable note, whether he knew precisely what Dorian was getting at. Because he didn’t allow what they were doing to distract him and he didn’t sound annoyed that Dorian wouldn’t be quiet and let them have this moment free of distractions. “What would you have us talk about?”

“This. Us. I just...” Dorian wasn’t properly equipped to talk about relationships at the best, least provocative of times. In the middle of sex was the absolute _last_ place he wanted to have the conversation, and between his inexperience at discussing these matters and way Cullen felt around and inside him, he was having difficulty putting his thoughts in order. “I wonder what it means.” He cleared his throat, trying to affect a nonchalant attitude over the whole thing if it turned out that this was just a pleasant diversion for Cullen. “If it means anything.”

“I want you,” Cullen responded simply, without hesitation or further prompting. 

“And you’re having me right now,” Dorian agreed. “I meant—”

“I want you,” Cullen repeated, emphasizing the word with a more forceful thrust. “Now.” Another sharp thrust. “Later.” And another. “Again and again.” Each _again_ was accented by Cullen driving his cock into him. “I want you in my bed and by my side.” 

That sounded more permanent than Dorian was expecting. It sounded, in Cullen’s occasionally odd way of speaking, that he was saying that he did indeed want a relationship. “But I...” _Don’t question it, just be grateful he wants you and shut up!_ “I thought you weren’t interested in me.”

Cullen made a quiet, huffing noise that Dorian belatedly realized was laughter. “I’ve courted you for months.” And oh, but there was undeniable affection in his voice now. Not even Dorian’s disbelief could convince him that it wasn’t there. “In what way might you think me uninterested?” 

“I—What?”

Months? Cullen had been _courting him_ for _months_? It was so unexpected that for a moment Dorian stilled, incapable of wrapping his mind around it. Had he been courting him? He struggled to sift through his memories of the past few months, trying to look at them through the lens of this new information. Cullen had been extraordinarily kind to him. He’d given him gifts: the leather coat, delicacies from other lands whenever a trader happened to bring some to the hold, once even a bottle of wine. He’d taken him in and taught—insofar as Dorian allowed himself to be taught—the ways of the Avvar.

He’d thought it was just Cullen being Cullen. Was that not the case? Had that been the Avvar version of courting?

“Since our first meeting,” Cullen was saying, his voice bringing Dorian out of the chaotic swirl of his thoughts. “I have wanted you.”

“Then why did you wait so long to tell me?” It came out a little exasperated, but it had been _six months_. Why in the Maker’s name had the bloody idiot waited so long?

He could feel Cullen shrug. “All things in their proper time.” More Avvar mysticism. Dorian wanted to strangle him. Until a particularly well-positioned thrust set him trembling with the wash of pleasure it sent through him. “Our time has come.”

It took a bit of contorting, but Dorian dipped his shoulder to the side and twisted his head around so that he could get Cullen’s face in his peripheral vision. “Mmm, not yet this morning it hasn’t,” he purred, reaching back to comb his fingers through Cullen’s hair. “But it will,” he promised, as he scratched his fingernails over Cullen’s scalp, eliciting a low groan of pleasure. “More than once, if you’re lucky.”

And perhaps that was the crux of it. Perhaps for once, they were _both_ lucky.


	3. Part Three

Dorian didn’t know whether to expect things to change between himself and Cullen or not. Would their relationship—even within the confines of his mind, the novelty of thinking such a thing brought him a ridiculously immature thrill—be a secret from the clan? Could it be? Would it be met with opposition? Would they make Cullen break it off? Would it be out in the open? Would the clan accept it? That possibility seemed preposterous. Impossible.

But despite the uncertainty and anxiety over what would happen now, Dorian soon learned that nothing had changed. When they walked out into the Swift-River Hold together, no one looked at them askance, no one whispered behind Dorian’s back or greeted him with harsh imprecations. No one even seemed to realize anything was different now than it had been yesterday.

And for his part, Cullen treated him the same way he always did. He was free with his touches; a hand on Dorian’s arm or against his back, an arm curled around his shoulder in one of those one-armed hugs that sometimes felt like being mauled by a bear. Cullen looked at him and smiled, sought out his company, sat with him openly by the fire, and in general, was precisely the same as he’d been before he’d come to Dorian’s hut.

It was when night fell that the change became apparent. Instead of parting ways to retire to their respective quarters, Cullen took Dorian back to his hut and they spent half the time they should’ve been sleeping in preparation for the journey back to Red-Lion Hold fucking each other senseless. When dawn’s light roused them from sleep, Dorian groaned, buried his face in Cullen’s chest, and demanded they have at least another hour’s sleep before starting the day.

By the time they joined the rest of the traveling party, Dorian was moderately more awake than he’d been two hours prior. Cullen looked as fresh as new fallen snow, which prompted Dorian to snarl at him in irritation when he wandered past him with a chipper smile and an encouraging pat on the shoulder. Dorian might have been infatuated with the man, but some things were going entirely too far. This much energy so early in the morning after a night of significant physical exertion and so little sleep was simply unforgivable.

The Swift-River Hold had gifts to give them for their hold: food, drink, garments, weapons, and jewelry. Each person, including Dorian, took an extra pack to fairly distribute the goods, and after a lot of embracing and hand-clasping—and in Cullen’s case, a number of women kissing his cheek while he glanced apologetically toward Dorian—they finally got underway.

Summer, such as it was, was still in full swing, so they didn’t encounter any snowstorms on their way back to the hold. There were a few run-ins with predators and one injury that resulted from a fall after an unfortunate misstep on the trail, but for the most part, the journey was uneventful.

The tents they’d brought with them were too small for more than one person to fit inside, so for the first time since the night of the arena fight, Dorian slept alone. It wasn’t such an unusual or troublesome state. Dorian had been sleeping alone for his entire life; affairs in Tevinter only lasted as long as the act itself and the times when Felix had snuck into his room to lay with him and talk long into the night didn’t count as romantic. But doubt was an insidious thing and Dorian’s life had been so full of disappointment and rejection that it wasn’t long before uneasy thoughts began to invade his mind.

What if this had been a temporary arrangement? What if Cullen wasn’t interested in continuing what they had once they were back in the hold and the festive atmosphere of another clan was a thing of the past? What if there had been a freedom there, as a visiting thane, that he didn’t have at home and once they were settled into their everyday lives, Cullen decided that Dorian just wasn’t worth pursuing anymore?

It wouldn’t be the first time someone found freedom in a different place that wasn’t available at home.

And he couldn’t take his concerns to Cullen. Not only would that make him look foolish and needy, but Cullen was busy directing Avvar and running off into the trees to hunt or climb things or simply to burn off his overabundance of energy. And there was always someone within earshot. Still uncertain how Cullen meant to present this, if at all, to his clan, Dorian wasn’t willing to overstep himself and bring up the subject in front of someone from whom Cullen might be trying to conceal it.

So instead of talking any of it over with anyone, Dorian let it stew in the back of his mind the whole way back to the hold. Whenever Cullen would look his way, he’d smile and nod and act as though nothing was troubling him. Years of acting in Tevinter paid off, because Cullen always accepted it and never thought to press for more.

Another, significantly less upsetting source of anxiety was the building anticipation of immersing himself in the hot spring. The closer they got to the hold, the more impatient Dorian became, until he felt like just running in its direction until he couldn’t run anymore. The thought of fresh clothes and a warm bath, even if it was going to be outside in the elements like an uncivilized ruffian, was a tantalizing reward at the end of a tiring journey that spurred him onward even when his feet started to hurt and he wanted to sit down.

At long last, a minor eternity later, they reached the hold. Someone must have alerted the other Avvar of their approach, because there was a crowd at the gate that made getting through something of a challenge. Questions were shouted, at friends, at lovers, at Cullen, about Swift-River Hold, friends there, and the competition. Laughter and loud voices soon created a din that Dorian was eager to get away from and, after foisting off his pack of gifted supplies to one of the Avvar he was on friendly terms with, he waded through the crowd as fast as he could manage. 

His first stop was his hut, where he set down his staff, shouldered off his own pack, stretched out sore muscles, and rifled through what few possessions he had for clean clothes. It was colder here in the hold than it had been down in the valley. He added his cloak to the pile, snagged his comb and a bar of fragrant soap, and left quickly.

With most of the hold still clustered around the gate and the returning Avvar, the pathways were rather empty, allowing Dorian to make the trip from the center of the hold to the spring in short order. Once there, he shucked off his clothes as fast as possible, the less time spent in the chill air the better, and jumped in.

The first time he’d been there, Dorian hadn’t been able to appreciate the spring properly. Now, months and many visits later, he could. It was a large pool of water, more oblong than circular, that was surrounded by rocks and tall grasses that weren’t found anywhere else in the hold. Around a bend was another cluster of pools that fed into a stream that met with a larger one and together ran through the hold. It was secluded enough that many Avvar used the spring to bathe, since it continuously replenished itself and the water was not connected to the system of streams that provided the hold’s water supply.

There was no one there now. He had the whole place to himself, which wasn’t _quite_ a rarity but certainly didn’t happen frequently. Thrilled at the opportunity, he decided to make the most of it. The clan would no doubt be occupied for hours. He could probably stay there in the water until his skin shriveled before anyone came up this way and disturbed him. And since he had nothing else to do, he decided that perhaps he would do just that.

Ducking under the water, Dorian got his hair thoroughly wet and took a leisurely swim around the pool. The warm water soothed his travel-weary muscles and by the time he’d made a few circuits back around to where he’d laid his things, he was ready to wash himself properly. The only problem with that plan, he discovered, was the pair of boots standing between him and his stuff.

The boots weren’t his. They were constructed of patchwork leather and far too much fur for Dorian’s fashionable sensibilities. They were also attached to a pair of muscular legs that ended in a furry loincloth that Dorian was, by now, intimately acquainted with and presently unsure whether he liked it for its easy access or hated it for how ugly it was.

In no particular hurry, Dorian let his gaze crawl slowly up the rest of Cullen’s body, taking in the abs that look like a sculptor had chiseled them in marble, his impressive biceps, hardened nipples, the intricacy of the strange fire tattoo, the dusting of short dark hairs—a bizarre contrast to the hair on top of his head—across his jaw and chin, and his eyes, more black than gold.

Not, Dorian realized, because of the glare of the sun, but because he’d been standing there watching him swim naked in the water. _I suppose that sets the question of whether he’s still going to be interested in me to rest, doesn’t it_? Dorian thought with no small amount of glee.

Arching an eyebrow casually, Dorian folded his arms across the rock ledge in front of him and set his chin atop them, eyes still on Cullen’s. “Is there something you need, Thane Wolf-Bane?” he asked innocently.

“You,” Cullen said simply.

And just like that, he stepped out of his boots and unbuckled the belt that kept the loincloth in place. It fell to the ground, forgotten, as Dorian’s gaze was drawn downward to Cullen’s cock, hard and jutting out from his groin. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it looked as if there was a drop of liquid beading at the tip.

_All of that just from watching me swim?_ Dorian thought with astonishment, his fears of being unwanted seeming more baseless and unfounded as the minutes passed. He dragged his gaze back up to Cullen’s face, catching him watching him look at his erection with open hunger. _This ridiculous man_ , he thought in affectionate wonder.

“Are you waiting for an invitation to join me?” Dorian asked, one side of his mouth curling up in a smirk. “Awfully civilized for a barbarian. I’m starting to question the validity of such a title.”

Goading him worked like a charm. Cullen wasted no further time in observation or conversation. He jumped into the water and had Dorian pressed up against the side of the pool before he’d shaken the dripping hair from his eyes, his arms around him and his mouth on Dorian’s as though they’d been parted for months instead of less than an hour.

Rivulets of water ran over his lips and into his mouth as they kissed, but Dorian couldn’t bring himself to care. Cullen was practically devouring him, murmuring wordless, impatient sounds into the kiss and running his hands over any part of Dorian’s body he could reach. His cock pressed insistently against Dorian’s hip, and after running his hands through his hair a few times, he gave into temptation and reached beneath the water to take him in hand.

Dorian pumped his cock fast, and after Cullen shoved a leg between his, rubbed his own against his thigh. After two nights of going without, and dealing with the nagging fear that he wouldn’t have this again, Dorian was just as impatient to come as Cullen seemed to be. And at this frantic a pace, it wouldn’t take very long.

Cullen was rocking into his hand, a low moan rumbling in his throat as he sucked on Dorian’s lower lip, and Dorian was just beginning to run his other hand down over the swell of Cullen’s ass when he abruptly pulled back.

“No,” he gasped breathlessly.

“No?” Dorian echoed dumbly, confused as Cullen’s hand closed around his wrist and stilled his hand. “What do you—?”

Cullen didn’t bother explaining. He was looking around, not even at Dorian, and for a moment, Dorian wondered if he’d heard someone coming up the path. _So it is to be a secret_ , he thought, not terribly surprised but faintly disappointed nonetheless. He’d hoped that it might be different here in the south. From his travels through the Free Marches and the northern part of Ferelden, he’d gotten the sense that it was. Perhaps relationships between men weren’t exactly celebrated, but he’d noticed a few couples openly engaged in affectionate gestures without any obvious sign of concern.

Still, he knew that the ways of the rest of Ferelden were not necessarily the ways of the Avvar. And he wanted this, he wanted Cullen. If that meant he appear as nothing but his close friend in public and reserve his status as lover to private moments, so be it. That was enough, whatever any residual sense of romantic nonsense he’d yet to expunge from himself wanted.

Releasing his grip on Cullen’s cock, Dorian started to pull away. He didn’t get far. Cullen murmured something too quiet to be intelligible, grabbed hold of his hips, and lifted him up. It wasn’t the first time he’d been hoisted around like this, so he suppressed a noise of surprise and kept still as Cullen took a few steps to the right and set him down on what felt like a submerged rock. It was a large, even enough against his bare ass that it wasn’t uncomfortable, and so tall that he didn’t lose any height on Cullen.

“What are you doing?” he asked, bewildered.

Instead of answering verbally, Cullen merely pulled himself up until he was kneeling on the rock, one knee on either side of Dorian’s hips. Reaching behind him, Cullen grasped the base of Dorian’s cock and shifted it away from where it had been pressing against his stomach.

“I want you inside me,” Cullen told him, catching Dorian by the hair with his free hand and tipping his head back to kiss him again.

Unable to resist kissing Cullen or a statement as arousing as that, Dorian gave himself over to it for a moment, licking into his mouth and sucking briefly on his tongue. But as he felt Cullen begin to lower himself onto his cock, he forced himself to pull back.

“Wait,” he urged, gripping Cullen’s upper arms in a bid for him to stop moving. “You need to—”

Cullen wasn’t waiting. He kept going, sinking down on Dorian’s cock, and Dorian’s protest died in his mouth as the tight, slick heat of Cullen’s body engulfed him. Groaning, his eyes slid closed, only to snap open a moment later. _Slick...?_

Dorian stared at him, the implication of what he was feeling so incredibly erotic that, coupled with the way Cullen’s body gripped his cock, it nearly made him come then and there. “Did you...?” He couldn’t even get the words out of his tight throat.

It wasn’t necessary. Cullen understood him and smiled a lazy, predatory smile that made Dorian whimper with the determination it required to hold back his orgasm. “I waited two days to have you. I could wait no longer.”

“But...” He didn’t know why he was protesting. Cullen had obviously prepared himself for this prior to his arrival at the hot spring. Just the thought of Cullen in his hut, fingers dripping with oil, fucking himself until he’d worked himself open enough to comfortably take Dorian’s cock was powerful enough to make him tremble with need.

Cullen leaned in, nipped at Dorian’s slack lips, and then lifted up onto his knees until it felt like the head of his cock was going to slip out of him, then slowly lowered himself back down in one smooth motion. Dorian just about choked on his sharp intake of air.

He wanted to move. He wanted to drive himself as deeply into the heat of Cullen’s body as he could, but the leverage wasn’t on his side, and with Cullen’s weight pinning him down, he couldn’t move much at all.

“Cullen,” he started, halfway between a groan and a whine. “Cullen, I want to move.”

That dark, velvety laughter Dorian loved so much vibrated deep in Cullen’s throat. “Patience,” he murmured, running the pads of his fingers over Dorian’s cheek. “In due time.”

Dorian stared at him. “In due—No.” He shook his head. “I’ll show you _due time_.”

Reaching down between them, Dorian took hold of Cullen’s cock and began pumping it in earnest. Cullen growled a sound Dorian couldn’t decipher, and what had begun as an impatient, rather frantic fumble became a kind of race that Dorian couldn’t pretend to regret. Cullen moved up and down on him as fast as his hand, and when he increased his speed in challenge, Cullen met it without complaint.

It didn’t take long before they were both gasping for breath, clutching tightly at each other to steady themselves. Sweat was sliding down Dorian’s back and the muscles in his forearm were beginning to ache, but he was determined to bring Cullen to climax first and win their impromptu little race. It was close, he could feel his own orgasm coiling in his gut and tightening his balls, but just when he thought he wouldn’t be able to hold out another second, he felt Cullen’s cock pulse and warmth spread over his hand.

Grinning in vicious triumph, Dorian worked him through it, smearing come along the length of his shaft with an odd sense of possessiveness. His orgasm thundered through him a moment later, as Cullen’s ass clenched around his cock and the friction became too much to resist. They collapsed together back against the lip of the pool, exhausted and, Dorian thought smugly, completely filthy. He ran the fingers of his free hand through Cullen’s hair, combing it back from his forehead while he brought the other hand to his mouth and thoughtfully licked it clean.

Aware that Cullen was watching him, Dorian took a moment to really _savor_ the finger he was sucking on. Whether it was because it was his essence Dorian was clearly enjoying or the suggestiveness of the act was making him envision Dorian’s mouth on his cock doing the same thing, Cullen groaned weakly and pressed his head into the side of his neck.

“You’re going to kill me,” he grumbled, though not without, Dorian noted happily, a note of lust simmering beneath the mock disgruntlement.

“It would serve you right,” he replied primly. “I came here to bathe and you’ve gotten me dirty all over again, you inconsiderate lout.”

Cullen snorted softly. “We haven’t left the spring, Dorian.”

“Then perhaps you ought to bathe me in apology for your thoughtlessness.”

Aware that he was being a brat, Dorian didn’t actually expect Cullen to accept his suggestion. But to his surprise, he did. Once they untangled themselves, Cullen tugged him out into the pool and, after retrieving his bar of soap, set about cleaning up the mess he’d made.

Lathering his fingers with suds, he worked them through Dorian’s short hair, massaging his scalp just as much as he scrubbed his hair. Half floating in the water and half leaning against Cullen’s broad chest, Dorian could do nothing but close his eyes and moan in sheer bliss. It went on for longer than he could reasonably expect Cullen to wash his hair, and then, his entire scalp tingling pleasantly, Cullen gently tilted his head back into the water and rinsed the soap out of it.

His body got the same treatment. Cullen’s hands were gentle as they rubbed soap over his shoulders, down his neck and arms, across his back, and between the crease of his ass cheeks. They returned to the useful rock ledge so that Dorian could perch on it above the water level and Cullen could wash his chest. He did his legs, lifting each in turn out of the water and rubbing vigorously over Dorian’s calves. It chased the last of the soreness out of his body, and by the time Cullen was gently washing his cock and balls, he was nearly asleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this relaxed and urged Cullen in for a languid, sleepy kiss.

Not to be outdone in the lavishment of attention, Dorian roused himself and repeated the process with Cullen. After washing his hair and finger combing through the tangles, he turned his attention to his face, scratching his fingernails through his stubble and tracing the scar on his lip until Cullen closed his eyes. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and kissed it, feeling Cullen’s lips curve into a smile.

He lingered over Cullen’s chest and back, leaving kisses here and there whenever the fancy struck. On a nipple. Above his heart. At the tip of his collarbone. Along the curve of the center flame of his tattoo. At the top of his spine. In the center of each shoulder blade. After lifting his foot out of the water, Dorian even kissed the tip of his largest toe as Cullen watched with heavy-lidded eyes. There was unconcealed affection in these gestures, Dorian knew, but Cullen was looking him with such open admiration that he didn’t feel terribly self-conscious about it. And when Cullen reached out at one point to tenderly cup his cheek and run his thumb over his cheekbone, it seemed an affirmation of the rightness of his actions.

By the time Dorian reached Cullen’s groin, he was half hard again. But instead of pulling Dorian in for a repeat performance, Cullen simply hummed in pleasure and reclined against the rock to soak in the sensation of soapy hands gently fondling him. And Dorian, aware of how good it had felt when he’d been receiving the same treatment, took care to take his time.

The bar of soap was noticeably smaller by the time they put it aside. For the first time in a week, Dorian felt clean and rejuvenated. Cullen must have felt something similar, for after a few quiet minutes floating lazily in the water, he suggested a swim, grinning with something that seemed an awful lot like simple joy, and Dorian agreed. For a smile like that turned in his direction, he suspected that he would agree to just about anything.

Their toes and fingertips were shriveled by the time they pulled themselves from the water. Dorian cursed his lack of foresight in not bringing a cloth to dry off with, but as Cullen calmly pointed out, the air was just the right temperature to evaporate the water droplets from their skin in relatively little time.

After they were dressed and Dorian’s wet hair was finger combed into a style he deemed acceptable for public view, Cullen reeled him and gave him a soft, lingering kiss, utterly unlike any of the passionate ones that had filled their afternoon in the spring.

“Will you join me for dinner?” Cullen asked, an odd tone in his voice that Dorian hadn’t heard before and barely recognized. It _sounded_ like shyness, but Cullen was never shy and certainly not around him.

Dorian smiled, gently teasing, “I don’t know. I receive so many invitations to dinner from handsome thanes, it’ll be difficult to choose who to grace with my presence.”

Smiling, Cullen pressed a chaste, strangely endearing kiss to Dorian’s forehead. “I look forward to it.”

And Dorian, knowing he was completely smitten and unable to do anything about it, grinned back at him. “So do I.”

* * *

Despite watching Cullen closely in the beginning, after a few weeks, Dorian had to admit that his fears had been unfounded. Just as he’d behaved no differently to Dorian during their visit to Swift-River after their first night together, Cullen’s attitude toward him remained unchanged after their return to Red-Lion Hold. He continued to go out of his way to spend time with and make time for Dorian. They took dinner together just about every night, deviating from the pattern only if one or the other was too busy to attend. They continued to explore the lands around the hold and when Cullen had to occasionally leave to attend to matters only a thane could deal with, he invited Dorian to accompany him. Sometimes Dorian went, if the excursion sounded interesting or dangerous. Other times, he declined and spent Cullen’s absence speaking with Vestar and the shamans, visiting with Selkor if he was present in the hold, or hanging around some of his other Avvar acquaintances. He hesitated to call them friends, it seemed like an invitation to the Maker to take them from him, but even if he wouldn’t admit it, but the truth was that that was exactly what they were.

Dorian didn’t give up his hut and move in with Cullen, nor did Cullen do the same. They never spoke about cohabitating. The hold wasn’t that large and the huts weren’t terribly spacious. There was no reason to change domiciles, not when that would require shuffling around what few possessions either of them had. Despite that, however, they each spent enough time in the other’s hut that they _could_ have ventured into living together in the same space.

Usually they retired to whomever’s hut was closer. Or if one had already retired for the evening, the other typically turned up shortly thereafter. The newness of waking up next to another man in the morning never truly wore off. It was a luxury Dorian hadn’t had in Tevinter and here in the south, it still seemed like a precious gift to turn his head and see Cullen there beside him, sunlight slanting across his handsome face as he slept on, oblivious to the attention.

What the Avvar thought of their thane spending his nights with a northerner, Dorian never discovered. Though he listened closely for gossip or rumbles of discontent with the arrangement, he never heard anything. No Avvar in the hold spoke of the evil magister who was seducing their thane. No one began offering plots and schemes to rid Cullen and the hold of his presence. It was like they didn’t care, which Dorian found difficult to believe. But surely they had to notice how one was always leaving the other’s hut in the morning, usually with the hut’s owner at his side. And with how little Cullen habitually wore, there was no disguising the bites and scratches and the odd bruise that he acquired from their rather active and adventurous sex life.

Dorian never managed to adjust to the temperatures this far south and still bundled up in high-necked shirts and layered his cloak over his coat. The marks Cullen left on him were rarely visible, though once or twice he noticed Cullen looking intently at him and realized that his shirt collar had slipped and the top of one such mark was visible on his neck. The first time it had happened, he’d hastily covered it again, mistaking the intensity of Cullen’s gaze for disapproval. He soon learned—after being pushed up against the back of a hut and sucked off so fast that it left him more than a little dazed—that Cullen wasn’t concerned about the marks being on display; he was actually incredibly aroused by it.

Though in all honesty, that was nothing new. Nearly everything about him, he discovered, aroused Cullen and he quickly got used to intense bouts of kissing occurring just about anywhere and sex in the most unconventional of places. The first time they’d gotten caught up in each other miles from the hold with no source of sufficient lubrication had been the last. Mouths and hands had taken the edge off, of course, but by the time they’d finished their trek down to the valley to check in with Hren and had returned to the hold, Cullen had been so impatient to fuck him that they’d almost broken the table in his hut when they couldn’t make it the couple extra steps to the bed. After that, they each made certain to always carry at least one vial of oil with them.

Summer gave way to autumn, taking with it the milder temperatures and leaving the mountains with weaker sunlight and colder winds. Dorian started wearing an extra layer, already dreading the icy chill of winter, and Cullen, after divesting him of his shirt one night only to find another in its place began complaining about his sensitivity to the cold.

A year ago, he never would have believed that this would be his life. Now, he was beginning to have difficulty imagining what life would be like without Cullen and his tribe of Avvar. He could have done without the cold and the lack of civilization, but the longer he remained, the more comfortable he became. Cullen, he knew, had a large role in his finding a measure of peace in the south.

Frumentum was just beginning—if Dorian’s estimation of the days that had passed since leaving Tevinter was accurate—when he waltzed into Cullen’s hut. Satinalia was approaching next month and he’d been wondering if the Avvar celebrated it. And _how_ they might celebrate the holiday, if they did.

“Cullen,” Dorian was saying as he opened the door to the hut and strode inside. “Do the Avvar…” And stopped as he caught sight of Cullen stuffing clothes into a pack. “Are you going somewhere?”

He hadn’t mentioned leaving the hold, and though Dorian had never demanded that he tell him everything he intended to do, Cullen had always done so on his own, even before they’d ventured into a physical relationship. To see him packing for travel without his having said anything about an upcoming trip was an anomaly to their routine. And as with all things related to their relationship, the oddity sent a thread of unease twisting through Dorian’s stomach.

Cullen had looked up when the door opened and now he was standing there, empty hand frozen in the air halfway from the pack, with a peculiar expression on his face. It looked equal parts wary and shifty, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing and was now scrambling to come up with a believable excuse.

“Ah, Dorian, I thought you were visiting with Vestar today,” Cullen finally said, breaking his silence and sounding as though he was not the least bit pleased that Dorian had cut the visit short.

“I did,” Dorian replied slowly, feeling the unease intensify into a prickle of paranoia. _He doesn’t want me here. Whatever he’s doing, I wasn’t meant to catch him in the middle of it._ “Is this a bad time?”

“No,” Cullen responded automatically, then visibly winced. Dorian stared at him with morbid fascination, half intrigued at seeing the normally honest man trying to lie and half sick to his stomach that he clearly felt he needed to lie to him now, after everything they’d shared. “Actually, it is,” Cullen continued after a moment’s hesitation and a heavy sigh.    

Conversation with him had never been so stilted before. _He’s leaving me. Literally leaving me._ It was a preposterous thought and one Dorian immediately chastised himself for entertaining. Cullen wasn’t _literally_ leaving him. Red-Lion Hold was his home. He was the clan’s thane. He wasn’t going to disappear into the night and abandon his responsibilities just because he no longer wanted to be in a relationship with Dorian any longer.

Knowing that he ought to apologize and take his leave, since it was obvious that Cullen didn’t want him there, Dorian instead found himself asking, like a glutton for punishment, “Would you like me to come back later?”

“No,” Cullen said immediately, so sharply it was almost a bark of sound.

Dorian froze, feeling as if he’d just been slapped across the face. Or perhaps punched in the stomach. It was difficult to determine which analogy better suited what was happening right now. He found it hard to suck in a proper breath and his heart was hammering within his chest.

Something must have shown in his face, because Cullen’s eyes widened for a moment and he started to reach out toward him. Before he came close to making contact, he rethought the action and let his hand drop back to his side.

“No,” he said again, softly this time. “I won’t be here. I…” Discomfort passed swiftly across his face. “There’s something I need to do and it will take me from the hold for a few days.”

_Perhaps I’m overreacting_ , Dorian thought, trying to be optimistic and failing. The sense of impending doom was too strong and kept getting stronger the longer Cullen stood there awkwardly, like he was faced with a stranger he didn’t know how to get rid of instead of his lover for the past three months. _It might not be as bad as I’m assuming. Cullen isn’t like the men from Tevinter. He wouldn’t push me aside without a word._

There had been no warning of a possible upset to their domestic bliss. Just yesterday they’d spent half the day in the hot spring, revisiting their return from Swift-River Hold and building upon the memories they’d made that day. Afterward, they’d retired to Dorian’s hut and spent the remainder of the evening lying together by the fire, feeding each other bits of dinner, sharing a rare bottle of wine Cullen had acquired from a passing merchant, and trading massages. Nothing about his actions had suggested that he was tiring of Dorian. Quite the opposite, in fact. In the soft, hazy moments before they’d drifted off to sleep, Dorian would have sworn that Cullen had murmured something dangerously close to an admission of love, though he’d fallen asleep right afterward and Cullen had been mumbling. By the time he’d woken up, he couldn’t be certain that he’d actually heard him say anything, much less something so emotional.

And now this. He didn’t know what to make of it or how to bridge the distance he could feel yawning between them to find out what had happened to make Cullen act so strangely.

“I’m correct in assuming you don’t want company for this excursion, yes?” Dorian tried to keep it casual and light, but then he ruined it by gesturing toward Cullen and the pack and adding, just a hair too sharply, “Otherwise you wouldn’t need to sneak away like this.”

The guilt he saw flicker to life in his eyes told him that he’d guessed correctly. Cullen had intended to sneak away while he was occupied with the augur. If he hadn’t left a few hours early, he would have arrived to find the hut empty and Cullen inexplicably gone.

It hurt more than it should and Dorian cursed himself for a fool. Cullen wasn’t like the men from Tevinter, but he also wasn’t some idiotic juvenile romantic fantasy either. He was a man with responsibilities that surpassed some foreigner who’d wandered into his life. He was the leader of his clan and Dorian was what? A homeless pariah? A powerful mage, yes, but one as unwelcome in the south for being a mage as he was in his homeland for his sexual preferences.

Perhaps the clan’s elders had started objecting to Cullen’s liaison with him. Perhaps some other members had approached him with concerns. Perhaps he’d met someone else who caught his fancy and he’d exhausted the novelty of bedding a foreign mage. 

Cullen sighed, looking slightly pained, but there was something implacable about his tone when he said, “Aye, you’re right. This is something I have to do alone.”

Stiffening, Dorian nodded, refusing to allow the depth of his hurt to show on his face. “Then I wish you luck,” he said curtly. “I apologize for interrupting you.”

Turning on his heel, Dorian left the hut before Cullen could respond. At least, that was what he told himself he was doing. In truth, he didn’t want to wait around to discover that Cullen wasn’t going to call out to him, tell him to wait, and try to fix whatever had happened between them. It was easier on his pride and his feelings just to take that option off the table.

For the rest of the day, Dorian took care to stay far from the gate so that he wouldn’t see Cullen depart, and since he didn’t see him again, he assumed that he was successful in avoiding him. More than once he was tempted to ask one of the other Avvar where the thane had gone, but everyone knew how close they were. If he asked something like that, it would be obvious that Cullen hadn’t told him, and that might lead to the suspicion that they’d had a falling out. Never one to _truly_ enjoy being the subject of gossip, Dorian decided that he wasn’t up to the humiliation that would follow and kept his mouth shut.

As the sky darkened to night, Dorian was on his way to have dinner when he passed Gerrid and her friend and accidentally overheard their conversation.

After they’d rescued Gerrid and the other warriors from the Wolfhold raiders, Dorian had been certain that the woman disliked him and had feelings for Cullen. He’d been only partially correct. She’d been wary of lowlanders and learning that he was from Tevinter made her even less inclined to trust him, but Cullen had made no secret that he welcomed him to the hold and eventually, through time, conversation, and simple proximity, Dorian and Gerrid had become friends. They weren’t as close as Dorian and Cullen by any stretch of the imagination, but they were friendly with one another and they often got together to discuss magical theory. She’d shown him a few Avvar-created spells and in turn, he had taught her some of the techniques he’d learned in the Circles.

During those discussions, he’d discovered that she did indeed have feelings for Cullen. She’d been harboring them for years, even since they were children, but she confided in him that she knew they would never be returned. Cullen wasn’t for her, she told him with regret, and because he was still worthy of her affection, she was content to love him from afar. At the time, Dorian had been nursing his own unrequited feelings for the man and had felt a large amount of sympathy for her. He hadn’t said as much, of course, but he’d brought her flowers the next time he met with her and taught her a complicated static cage spell that she could use to impress the other shamans.

Now, he paused, having heard her murmur Cullen’s name, and although he told himself it was none of his business and he needed to keep going, he lingered near a rickety wood and wire fence, ostensibly fixing a tangled bit of wire and paying no attention to her and her friend whatsoever.

“Do you know her name?” The friend—Halla? Dalla? Salla? Dorian couldn’t quite remember her name—was asking.

“No,” Gerrid replied, sighing. “Nor her hold.”

Salla—it was Salla, he was almost certain of it—laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Perhaps she’ll be ugly. Big crooked teeth and a warty face.”

“Dalla!” Gerrid exclaimed, proving that Dorian really wasn’t as good at remembering names as he thought he was, and slapping the other woman’s arm in scandalized dismay. But there was an undercurrent of laughter in her voice for all that she didn’t sound pleased about whatever they were discussing. “Don’t be rude.”

“Well,” Dalla replied with a sniff. “It would serve him right.”

“Oh, no it wouldn’t,” Gerrid disagreed, sounding mildly exasperated. “Cullen deserves to have a beautiful wife.”

_Wife?_ Dorian froze, hands resting on the wire lattice of the fence. _Cullen’s_ wife _? What?_

“He could have had a beautiful wife right here,” Dalla retorted, with a pointed look at Gerrid. “He didn’t need to go to another hold to find her.”

The pieces of the puzzle abruptly came together, revealing the picture of what had happened with terrible clarity. Cullen had left the hold to travel to another— _“There’s something I need to do and it will take me from the hold for a few days.”_ —and what he’d gone there to do was find himself a _wife_. It made a sickening kind of sense. His attempt to leave before Dorian could intercept him and his guilty, cagey behavior when Dorian had come upon him unexpectedly. 

_That bastard_ , Dorian thought furiously. _That bloody, lying bastard_. The fence post in front of him burst into flames, startling him out of his anger, and he quickly put it out before he could draw attention to himself. Gerrid and Dalla had kept walking, their path taking them beyond Dorian’s earshot, but he’d heard enough. Stepping away from the fence before he could do it any more damage, he stormed off to his hut.

He wanted to hate Cullen for what he’d done, for lying to him for months and pretending like everything was all right, but the part of him that had been born and raised in the politics of Tevinter understood it. Perhaps a little too well. Cullen might not have been lying about wanting Dorian and wanting to be with him. Perhaps that really _was_ what he wanted. But the burden of leadership often didn’t care about the needs and desires of those who took it up. No doubt the thane needed to marry a woman so that he could give the hold a number of strong, hearty children who would grow up to be productive members of the clan and strengthen the hold.

And Dorian was the collateral damage. He didn’t know why he was surprised. That was the story of his life. At nearly thirty, he probably ought not to have thought it could be changed.

He couldn’t help wondering exactly how Cullen thought this was going to go. If he thought he could just disappear one day, show up with a bride-to-be at his side a couple days later, and all would be well. A wife on one arm and his male lover on the other. Or perhaps he intended to end the physical relationship with Dorian and simply keep him there at his side as his friend and confidant. And perhaps at one time, Dorian would have agreed to that. Having a friend like Cullen was no small matter, and though it wouldn’t be easy to lose any aspect of what they had, it would be better to lose the sex than the man entirely.

Or it would have been, had Cullen not decided to take the coward’s way out. If he had spoken to Dorian, explained what he was doing, Dorian wouldn’t have been happy, but he would have been able to get past it eventually. Now, he was too angry and hurt by Cullen’s dishonesty to consider being his friend. A _real_ friend wouldn’t have lied to him like that. A _real_ friend would have respected him enough not to try to sneak away like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

No, Cullen had proven what Dorian meant to him by his actions and Dorian had every intention of making sure that he reaped the consequences.

Entering his hut, Dorian stopped in the middle of it and stood there for a long moment, simply looking at the contents. The hearth where the embers of the fire waited for him to turn them into flames. The bed piled high with warm furs that was now irrevocably linked to Cullen. An unsteady chair that he’d first scoffed at and now often sat on by the fire to read. Simple things that he hadn’t appreciated for the majority of his time spent among them, aspects of a life he’d grudgingly come to enjoy and now was going to leave.

Because he was going to leave. Not now, in the middle of the night. He wasn’t suicidal, and even now that he was more familiar with the mountains than he’d been when he was first brought to the hold, Dorian wasn’t willing to try his luck with them in the darkness. But first thing in the morning, he was walking out of the gate and he wasn’t coming back. By the time Cullen returned with his wife, he would be long gone.

Decision made, Dorian finally started moving. He went first to gather his belongings. He didn’t have much, but what he did have he was taking with him. He vacillated over the coat Cullen had gotten for him for a moment before practicality won out over pride. It was coming on winter soon and it would be frigid in the mountains. If Dorian wanted to survive, and he did, he would need to make sure he was outfitted as warmly as possible. To that end, the coat was coming. He could burn it once he reached civilization.

Once his possessions were packed, Dorian sat down in the wobbly chair in front of the now roaring fire and stared moodily into the flames. He knew he was avoiding dealing with the entirety of his feelings, but he didn’t want to deal with them. He had no wine to act as a buffer and he felt too raw to make the attempt to sort through it all. Maybe later. Much later. For now, it was easier to wallow in the anger. Less painful, too.

Eventually his eyelids grew heavy and he hauled himself into bed. It smelled like Cullen—like wood smoke and cold wind and a hint of something metallic—and his chest tightened uncomfortably at the memories of what they’d last done in this bed. It tightened still further when he remembered that he’d thought Cullen confessing love for him and when his eyes started to burn—from being tired—he forced himself to stop thinking about it and closed them. Sleep didn’t come easily, but the stubborn refusal to entertain his thoughts and the warmth of the bed eventually wore him down and he slipped off into blissful oblivion.

He came awake violently some indeterminate amount of time later, lying on his stomach and struggling as something—as some _one_ twisted his arms behind his back and lashed his wrists together. He tried to shout for help, but discovered that he’d been gagged by a thick piece of leather stuffed between his lips and tied behind his head. Gagged _and_ blindfolded, he reassessed a moment later, realizing that despite opening his eyes, he still couldn’t see anything. It was a position he’d been in before and he desperately hated it.

Fear was practically a living thing inside him, screaming at him to move, move, move, fight and _get away_. But kicking out did nothing and his wrists were too securely tied to work his arms free. And on top of that, he had no idea who was accosting him or how many of them there were. His heart was pounding so hard that it was deafening and the frantic breaths he took were loud and erratic.

As he was hauled to his feet by a vise-like grip on his arm, Dorian ran quickly through the potential list of people who might do this to him. More Wolfhold raiders? Some secret contingent of Red-Lion Hold Avvar who hated him and were moving to dispose of him now that Cullen was gone and couldn’t speak out against his removal? That was a limited, unrealistic pool of possibilities. Even if Wolfhold knew that he was there in the hold, they had no reason to abduct him. And he’d been left in the hold without the thane’s presence more than once and no one had tried to hurt him. Cullen had even been gone for a whole week once and the worst that had happened to him was that he’d tripped going down a flight of stairs and bruised his ankle.

No, none of it made sense. And Avvar wouldn’t abduct him. They’d kill him and dispose of his body after he was dead and unable to fight back. They wouldn’t drag him off somewhere to do the deed first.

Dorian’s blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins just as the hand on his arm gave him a shove to get him moving. Frozen with the dawning realization that he knew who was responsible for this, he stumbled and would have fallen had his abductor not grabbed him and forced him upright again.

It wasn’t Avvar. It was his father. He’d paid a bunch of thugs to travel to the south and forcibly retrieve his errant son. He was getting dragged back to Tevinter, to blood magic that would strip his will from him, to a wife of his own that he didn’t want and couldn’t stomach the thought of being intimate with, to a life he refused to live. 

Panic swelled and Dorian tried to bolt. He didn’t get far. Someone caught him and jerked him roughly back in line with whatever path they had already chosen. Knowing that panic would only put him in a worse predicament, Dorian tried to calm down enough to track his steps. If he knew where they were taking him, he might be able to escape later. Out of the hut. Down a side path that wasn’t used very often. A pause by… he wasn’t sure. With his eyes rendered useless and adrenaline flowing freely, he was getting too disoriented.

He was started walking again. After a few minutes, during which he attempted and failed to count the number of footsteps he was hearing, he tried to make a run for it. His abductor must have been waiting for it, because the hand on his arm tightened painfully instead of letting go in surprise. Hating himself for capitulating, but not knowing what else to do, Dorian stopped struggling and quietly let himself be tugged along.

It felt like they walked for miles. There was no way they were still in Red-Lion Hold, but he couldn’t figure out where they were. The path was heading in a gradually downward direction, but that told him nothing. They could be going down into the valley he was most familiar with or they could be descending the other side of the mountain entirely. He just couldn’t tell.

Part of him wondered how long it would take anyone to notice that he was gone. His stuff was probably all still in the hut. His father’s men wouldn’t have been told to be sure to gather his belongings. Nothing he had with him was worth anything except the staff and the staff could be replaced. He wondered if the Avvar would think he’d just abandoned everything or if they would realize that he’d been taken against his will. If they did, would they send anyone out looking for him?

A hunting party with an eagle might be able to find him. Or Selkor. If they took Selkor with them, surely the lion would be able to follow his scent. But would they? If Cullen was bringing back a bride, the hold would likely be so caught up in planning for the wedding that they wouldn’t have time to organize a search party. They might not even realize that he was gone until after it was over.

The desperate part of him wanted to cling to the hope that someone would come for him. The realistic part of him knew that there was no hope. He was going back to Tevinter. There was no way around it. At least not yet. Later, perhaps, an opportunity would present itself. Maybe he could throw himself off whatever ship they hired to cross the Waking Sea, provided, of course, that he wasn’t too sick to get himself up to the deck and close enough to the side to pitch himself overboard.

His feet were starting to drag by the time he was jerked to an unceremonious halt. His abductors had been silent during the entire operation. None of them had spoken a word. It was completely unhelpful for identifying them. Evidently his father had learned a thing or two about a proper abduction after the last few failed attempts.

A confusion of sounds he couldn’t identify happened. Rustling and shifting and something that might have been heavy cloth being shook for an unknown purpose. Then he was roughly spun around, so fast he nearly lost his footing and it was only the grip on his arm that kept him on his feet.

Inexplicably, the tight band of leather that had been pressing against the sides of his face and the back of his head abruptly went slack. When he worked his jaw, he felt the ties of the gag fall away from his skin and after a brief, uncertain pause, he spit the thing from his mouth. His tongue was dry, his throat as well, and his jaw ached slightly. Nothing a little magic couldn’t fix, but he wasn’t willing to attempt any magic just yet. Not until he had a better idea of what was going on.

The cloth that blocked his vision dropped away, revealing a lot of black, indistinct shapes and a few pinpricks of bright yet distant light. He was outside, he knew, so that was…Trees? The sky? It was too dark to tell and his eyes had yet to adjust to the meager amount of light that was available wherever they were. He started to twist around to try to see who was behind him—near as he could tell, there was no one in front of him—but he was spun back to face forward before he could catch a glimpse of anything.

His arms were jostled, then whatever was used to bind them—rope, he'd thought—fell away. For an instant, he didn't move, even as his brain registered that there was nothing holding him any longer. It just seemed like a trap and he wasn't looking to walk headlong into it. But he _was_ free and whoever his father had sent to capture him was going to burn.

Spinning around, already summoning fire to his hand, Dorian was about to launch it at the hapless fool when he caught sight of said fool's face in the leaping flames.

" _Cullen?"_

They stared at each other, Dorian dumbstruck and Cullen looking as wary as he'd ever seen him. His sword was at his side, sheathed and currently not glowing with its eldritch light. There were no weapons in Cullen's hands and no immediate sign of bodies strewn about around them. The _proper_ reaction to this impossible turn of events was to ask what he was doing there and how he'd found him. But Dorian, too bewildered and still too angry and hurt over everything, bypassed proper completely.

"Where's your wife?" he snapped, glaring at Cullen like everything was his fault. Which, from a certain, rather subjective, angle, it was.

Cullen opened his mouth, blinked, then shut it. After a moment of looking as thoroughly confused as Dorian was angry, he opened it again and took a stab at words. "What wife?"

"You tell me," Dorian hurled back at him, refusing to allow him the luxury of playing stupid. "It's all anyone at the hold can talk about."

Instead of guilt or chagrin or sheepishness at being caught in a thicker web of deception than he'd originally tried to weave, Cullen just looked more confused. "What?" he asked again. "Why?"

The fire still burning in Dorian's hand flared in response to his surge of anger. "Perhaps because you ran off to some other hold to get a wife!"

There was something a little too sincere about Cullen's wide-eyed disbelief, but Dorian wasn't interested in humoring it. "No I didn't."

"No?" Stepping forward, Dorian jabbed him hard in the chest with his non-burning hand. "Then where did you go with such secrecy?"

"Nowhere."

Dorian laughed, harsh and biting. "If you honestly expect me to believe that, you're a bigger fool than I thought you were."

"I didn't go anywhere," Cullen countered. "I left the hold. I walked north until the sun began to set. Then I turned around and came back."

Perhaps it was Dorian who was the fool here, not Cullen, because despite everything the man had done, he wanted to believe it. Feelings, treacherous things that they were, were seldom reasoned with. "Why?" he demanded snidely. "Changed your mind?"

Cullen's brow furrowed. "No..."

Maker help him, he really was going to set him on fire. He could feel the fire burning hotter as his frustration mounted. Prying straight answers out of Cullen hadn't gotten any easier with time or intimacy.

"If you don't start talking," Dorian snarled, "I will walk away right now and you will never see me again. I don't care that you saved me from my father's men."

"What men?" Cullen's hand went to the hilt of his sword on instinct as he glanced around the darkness as if he could see through it better than Dorian could. "I've seen no men."

_What?_ The weirdness of the situation was starting to overwhelm him. "If there were no men, why are you here?"

_Now_ , and only now, Cullen looked uncertain. Hesitant in a way he normally wasn't and... uneasy? Was that the proper term for whatever it was he'd just seen flicker across his face? Dorian wasn't certain. He'd never seen Cullen look this way before.

As Dorian watched, scowling at him over the flames, Cullen seemed to struggle with his answer. More than once, he appeared about to speak, but before he could open his mouth, the muscle along his jaw twitched and he kept his silence. Impatience soon joined the frustration and anger running riot inside him, but the surreality was still so strong that Dorian bit his tongue against something especially sharp and angry.

"I wanted to..." Cullen finally started, only to stop and hiss in frustration. He took his hand away from his sword and ran it back through his hair, glancing away from Dorian's flinty stare for a moment as if to marshal his courage. Which was a ridiculous notion. In all the time he'd known him, Dorian had never seen the man afraid. He wasn't sure he even knew what fear was.  When Cullen turned back to him, there was hurt in his eyes. "Do you truly believe I would do that to you?"

Dorian stared at him, simultaneously taken aback by Cullen's audacity to be hurt over something that he'd willingly done and feeling a bit unsteadily like the situation was rapidly slipping into chaos. It was unusual, feeling as though the responsibility to be the mature, cooler head in this bizarre argument fell to him. He was used to being the one spinning everything further out of control, not trying to reel it back in.

"Do what? Fuck me while making arrangements in secret for a wife?" It came out sounding a lot harsher than he intended, especially after having his little revelation. Sighing, Dorian reined in his temper. "No, honestly. I didn't think you'd do that to me." Then, because it was Cullen and sometimes he felt he had to make pointed statements to get through his stubborn barbarian head, he added, "Which is why I'm angry with you right now."

"For something I haven't done?" Now it was Cullen's turn to be baffled.

"Haven't you?" Dorian gestured wildly between them, and because he'd thoughtlessly used the wrong hand in his ire, he nearly set them both on fire and had to hastily dampen the flames. "What was all this about then, if it wasn't about marriage?"

Cullen sighed, looking a bit hangdog at the question and utterly unfazed by how close he'd come to being burned. "It _was_ about marriage."

Dorian's mouth snapped shut so fast he almost bit the tip of his tongue off. _Of all the_ —

"To you."

Jaw literally falling open like some credulous yokel he would've certainly mocked had he not been the one in the situation, Dorian gapped at him. "What?"

Surely he'd heard that wrong. Cullen couldn't possibly have said what he thought he had. It just didn't make any sense. Not in the context of the events of the past twelve hours and definitely not within the context of Dorian's life. No brilliant retort was forthcoming; he'd been struck speechless and the shock hadn't worn off yet.

Cullen must have suspected the cause of his silence. After a heavy sigh, he started explaining without any further prompting. "Among the Avvar, it's customary to take one's chosen from their hold under the cover of night. It's a test of skill to sneak unseen into the hold of another clan and escape undetected with one's chosen. To succeed pleases the gods and honors the chosen by demonstrating their intended's worth."

It was as if he were somehow standing outside his body and watching the proceedings happen to strangers. Cullen was standing there looking faintly hurt, explaining something preposterous as if it were the most logical thing in the world. And he was facing him, gawking like a fish yanked from the water, mouth trying to open and never quite making it.

Marriage. _Marriage._ Cullen had been trying to _propose_ by… abducting him from his bed? It was as ludicrous as anything else the Avvar, and Cullen especially, ever did. Weirdly, that made it more believable than less. Although the part Dorian was really getting hung up on was the fact that Cullen had said in a marginally less direct way that he wanted to marry _him._ Dorian Pavus. Pariah of Tevinter. Thedas’ most disappointing son. Breathtakingly handsome, stunningly intelligent, and utterly unlovable to anyone who had ever met him, save Felix.

And Cullen, apparently, if he was to be believed.

Dorian wasn’t certain that he could. He also wasn’t certain that he was actually awake at the moment. The air was crisp and cold and the stars overheard gleamed with chill white light. It didn’t look like the Fade. This didn’t feel like the snare of a particularly inventive desire demon. And yet…

"So that’s what you were doing?” Dorian inquired, finally figuring out to breathe and think and speak around his astonishment. “Asking me to…?” He couldn’t even say the word.

“We share a hold,” Cullen said, the tone of his voice not quite in the realm of beseeching, but it was certainly closer than Dorian had ever heard it. “It would have been improper and dishonorable to only walk from my dwelling to yours.”

It boggled the mind how walking to a person’s door to propose like a civilized person was improper and dishonorable, but physically removing someone from their bed in the middle of the night and scaring them half to death was all right. More than all right, it seemed. It was _expected_. It was no wonder the rest of Thedas thought the Avvar little more than savages.

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Dorian said, admiring how calm he sounded. Calm and, if he was being honest, slightly detached. It still didn’t feel like it was happening to him. “In order to avoid being _dishonorable—_ ” His eyebrows rose. “—you tried to sneak out of the hold and, when I walked in on your attempted departure, you lied to me. Afterward, you _tied me up_ , dragged me from my bed, and marched me halfway across the mountain in the middle of the night against my will?” 

Ever so subtly, Cullen seemed to deflate. There was a slight forward hunch to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before and his gaze dropped until he was staring at something near to the ground. “It is our way,” he said softly.

It was difficult to determine exactly how he felt about all of this. His emotions were still a tangled, erratic mess and his temper was prone to flaring at the least provocation. But he wasn’t so mired in his feelings that he was wholly unreasonable, deaf to what Cullen was saying, or blind to how crestfallen he was beginning to look.

Dorian wasn’t feeling overly charitable, but he could understand how it had seemed like a sound plan to Cullen. Lying to someone in an effort to maintain the element of surprise for something that should have been positively received wasn’t a terrible thing to do. Regardless of how he’d behaved, it truly hadn’t been wholly Cullen’s fault that Dorian had jumped to conclusions. Nor was he responsible for anyone gossiping erroneously about his actions or for Dorian overhearing any of it and believing the worst of him. And while being bound, gagged, and blindfolded by an unknown assailant hadn’t been an especially pleasant experience, Cullen hadn’t hurt him or gone out of his way to terrorize him.

If he’d been born an Avvar, would he have known what was going on? Would he have woken in the night to Cullen at his bedside and of his own volition snuck silently after him through the hold, dodging guards and those of the clan who had yet to find their beds? Gerrid and Dalla had clearly known what Cullen was doing, though they’d been woefully incorrect on the details, and they’d sounded excited; perhaps even a little wistful. As if they were waiting for a lover to come spirit them from their beds at night the way adolescents in Tevinter whispered about catching the eyes of royalty or being taken away by an attractive pirate captain for romantic adventures on the seas.

He thought back to that sleepy comment Cullen had softly breathed in his ear just before falling asleep the night before. Perhaps it hadn’t been a dream or a product of his imagination. Perhaps he really _had_ told him that he loved him. Perhaps to an Avvar, that would have been a hint that an exciting adventure was in store for the following night.

Dorian took a deep breath, then slowly let it out and said quietly, “And you did all of that because—”

Cullen didn’t let him finish. He looked up, met Dorian’s eyes, and said plainly, “Because I love you and I want to marry you.”

When was the last time anyone had said that to him? Try as he might, Dorian couldn’t remember. Perhaps no one ever had. As far as he knew, Felix was the only person who’d ever loved him and even he hadn’t said those specific words. But some half-naked, insane barbarian from the middle of nowhere just had. Not only that, but the bloody bastard had just asked him to marry him.

Softly, maybe even a little hysterically, Dorian laughed. It wasn’t mocking, just disbelieving, and for a moment, that was all he could do. Cullen watched him, though he let him have a moment and didn’t ask for the reason for his laughter or an answer to his proposal, such as it was.

It was only when Dorian had fallen silent, pensively trying to determine what he wanted to say to all of this, Cullen asked quietly, hope and uncertainty in his eyes, “Do you think it possible you might one day come to love me?”

No demand, only a simple question, and Dorian knew that if he said no, Cullen would accept it with grace. Because despite what doubt, anger, and hurt feelings had whispered to him earlier, Cullen _was_ a good man. An honorable one too, though his definition wasn’t the same as Dorian’s. He wouldn’t force this or beg and plead like an undignified wretch. In his odd way, Cullen had just offered him his heart. It was up to Dorian to decide what to do with it.

If he was being honest with himself—and at the moment, he knew that honesty, however difficult, was necessary—he knew that it wasn’t really a decision at all. There was only one way he could truthfully answer that question.

“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I couldn’t.”

It happened too fast to stop it. At that first word, he could practically see Cullen’s heart start to break, but even as it happened, he was already shoring up his defenses, smoothing out his expression to take this hurt as stoically as he took wounds in battle. Taking a step forward into Cullen’s personal space, Dorian shook his head again and reached—this time with the hand free of fire—out, pressing his palm against Cullen’s cheek.

“I already do.”

Dramatic gestures and bald, open declarations seemed too insurmountable a challenge for him at the moment, but those three words were easy enough to say. And as he watched them heal the hurt the start of his answer had caused, Dorian knew that whatever it had cost his pride and his comfort to openly admit to having feelings someone else could harm, it was worth it all the same.

“Truly?” Cullen asked, as though he hardly dared to believe it.

Having just been through the wringer where disbelief was concerned, Dorian felt he could sympathize with his plight. “Truly,” he replied, leaning in slightly. Then, because he couldn’t pretend to be anyone but himself, Dorian added with mock severity, “You’re insufferable and infuriating and your romantic inclinations are atrocious. But…”

He let the fire in his hand go out and brought that one to the other side of Cullen’s face, holding him still between both palms. The hand that had held the fire was warmer than the other; against it, Cullen’s cheek was very cold.

“I suppose that without your terrible habits and your woeful ignorance about proper courtship, you wouldn’t be you.” Leaning forward the rest of the way, Dorian gently, almost chastely, kissed Cullen’s mouth. “And it is you I suppose I will marry. Not some other impossibly handsome, half-naked barbarian.”

It was much harder to see without the light of the fire, but they were standing close enough that the meager light from the stars provided just enough for him to see the smile that spread across Cullen’s face, like the first rays of dawn stretching out above the peaks of the mountains. He'd always been rather weak to Cullen's smiles and tonight, even after all the ups and downs of the day, was no exception.

Cullen leaned in to kiss him again. Dorian almost moved forward into it, but changed his mind at the last second and slid his thumbs over Cullen's lips to hold him back. "If you even think about _entertaining_ the notion of having sex out here after everything you put me through tonight," he warned him, half joking and half serious, "I will set you on fire and walk back to the hold alone. Is that clear?"

From the low, throaty chuckle Cullen gave at that, he couldn't tell if that had actually crossed his mind or not. But it paid to be clear nonetheless. One never knew with barbarians. The outdoors, Dorian had discovered, seemed to be a bit of an aphrodisiac.

Kissing the pad of each thumb, Cullen eventually tilted his head back so that he could speak without Dorian's fingers in the way. "I've no amorous intentions, I swear."

"None at all?" Dorian shot back, raising an eyebrow. "I should hope that isn't the case. I don't intend for this to be one of those hideous chaste marriages I've heard about."

Cullen smiled. "No," he murmured, shaking his head as he gently cupped a hand around the back of Dorian's neck. "It will not be a chaste marriage."

This time, he allowed the kiss, rising briefly up on the balls of his feet to dispatch the inch or so difference in height that existed between them and brushed his lips against Cullen's. "I intend to hold you to that."

It was going to take some adjustment, he knew, to wrap his mind around everything that had happened. But for the moment, he was content to stand there in Cullen's embrace and kiss away the unpleasantness of the last few hours. A trek back to the hold loomed in their immediate future, but after everything, he thought he deserved a few minutes of reacquainting himself with Cullen's addictive mouth.

* * *

The panic set in after they’d gotten back to the hold. Getting married to a man he'd known less than a year was a foolish, rash decision and Dorian knew it. What little he knew of legitimate, happy relationships came from books filled with unrealistic saccharine rubbish, observing a few random moments of Gereon and Livia's interaction with one another before her death, and the few months he'd been intimate with Cullen. It wasn't a very promising foundation upon which to try to build a successful relationship as lovers, much less something as deep and committed as marriage was evidently supposed to be. And that wasn't even taking into account who and what Cullen was. Then the list of reasons why Dorian was a fool to consider this grew so long that he couldn't easily see his way to the bottom of it.

But he couldn't just blithely stumble his way through this like he did everything else. Cullen genuinely cared for him. His feelings were involved too, and if Dorian cared about him at all—he did; quite a lot, in fact—then he needed be sure that he wasn't about to do the man a terrible injustice.

Self-reflection and examination were as distasteful to Dorian as every other form of emotional honesty. What he'd found on the few disastrous forays he'd made into the wilds of his "inner self" didn't encourage him to frequently make the venture. In fact, he was rather turned off to the whole thing and tended to avoid anything more than brief glimpses at his most superficial needs and desires. Something on the magnitude of what he meant to do required extensive planning and a number of supplies.

He waited a few days after their return to the hold, searching for an excuse to spend an evening alone that wouldn't cause Cullen to worry, such as feigning sickness, or alarm him into thinking that he was having second thoughts about their impending nuptials. Which, admittedly, he was, but not in the way he was certain that Cullen would assume. He wasn't looking to get out of it. He wanted to make sure that he had said yes for the right reasons. The sort of reasons that would lead to a long lasting, and above all, _happy_ marriage, not an imitation of the miserable domestic dysfunction his parents were trapped in.

Fortune smiled upon him when, unfortunately for poor Hren, his hut was damaged in a storm. Cullen, selfless, compassionate idiot that he was, immediately collected a group of enterprising Avvar and set off to the valley with promises to Dorian that he would return as soon as repairs had been completed. It would not, however, be before nightfall, which Dorian assured him was fine.

Once the repair crew had left the hold, Dorian went to the brewmaster, charmed three bottles of the vile ale out of him, and retreated to his hut for some serious self-assessment. He was tempted to contact Felix through the crystal and ask his opinion on the matter, but in the spirit of honesty, admitted to himself that that was just a diversionary tactic. Felix would, of course, listen to him and offer his advice on the matter, which would be quite valuable, but Dorian already knew the advice Felix would provide. Not only that, he also knew that the conversation would quickly wander off on a tangent and the night would fly by in philosophical debate, fond reminiscence, gossip, and everything else that wasn't remotely related to his dilemma.

_No_ , he told himself firmly, uncorking the first bottle and settling in on his wobbly chair by the fire. _I must do this alone._ He tried valiantly to pretend he was about to embark on a heroic quest and was disappointed to discover that as adept as he was at lying to himself normally, he was falling remarkably short of the mark tonight.

He took a few bracing gulps from the bottle, floundered around for a place to start, then decided that what he needed to do was make a list of the pros and cons of marrying Cullen. Whichever side ended up being longer would, he hoped, point him in the right direction of what to do. It was also more likely to allow him to succeed in sorting through his feelings tonight than anything else he might have tried.

Firstly, Cullen was devastatingly handsome, which immediately went into the pro category. Looks faded over time, it was true, but—and Dorian was aware of how disgustingly sappy this was—he was just as handsome on the inside too, and that _wouldn't_ fade as he aged. He cared about people to such a degree that Dorian often questioned the wisdom of it. He sacrificed his time and his safety for others, as willing to travel half a day to rebuild someone's hut as he was to charge off into battle alone so that others might not have to get injured. He was secure in his position and power without being arrogant about it; a skill no magister had ever been able to master. And he was welcoming and accepting of people he had no reason to welcome or accept.

Which led Dorian to the second point, which was definitely a con. Namely, that he was a barbarian. And not just barbarian, a southern one at that. He wouldn’t be able to upset his parents more if he put all his effort into trying; they would absolutely disapprove and would be hideously disappointed in him. Not just because Cullen was a man, but also because he was Fereldan, had no magic, was so poor by Tevinter standards that he was even lower on the social ladder than slaves, and considered mud and animal hide to be the height of fashion. Dorian didn't mind that he would be disappointing his parents. These days, disappointing his parents was a hobby he rather enjoyed. What concerned him was the possibility that he might be doing this in large part because he wanted to disappoint them so utterly they would never speak to him again. But, he realized as he mulled it over, digging through the depths of himself for the truth, he really _wasn’t_ doing this to earn their disapproval.  

He discovered that he honestly didn't care what they thought of it. It was _his_ life, not theirs. It was his choice, and when he considered his options, his parents weren't a factor regardless of how he looked at it.

Acknowledging that he truly didn't care about his parents' opinion of his choices gave him a surprising sense of peace. It was freeing in a way he didn't expect, and after a moment's further deliberation, he decided to put Cullen being a southern barbarian down as a pro, if only because it had helped him make peace with a part of his life and himself that he thought would be a chaotic mess forever.

It took him an entire bottle of ale to get that far in his self-reflection. A strong aversion to _Getting To Know Dorian Pavus_ made him want to consider the problem solved. So far, he was overwhelmingly in favor of marrying Cullen. But some masochistic— _mature_ and _responsible—_ part of him refused to quit so soon.

The sex was great; it hadn't grown stale or dull yet—having never had a steady sexual partner, he wasn’t sure if it would and he was pleasantly surprised to find that it hadn’t—and from the way things were going, it didn't seem likely that it would. Pro. Marrying Cullen meant living like a savage for the rest of his life. Definite con. Cullen loved him. Pro. Cullen wasn't afraid to love him openly. Pro. Cullen still insisted on wearing that damnably hideous loincloth everywhere. Con.

Cullen came with a whole clan full of muddy doglord savages just like him. Con. Just like him, those savages were accepting of Dorian despite his heritage and many seemed to genuinely like him. Pro. Avvar magic was fascinating. Pro. Selkor was fascinating. Pro. The weather in the Frostbacks was abysmal. Con. 

Another bottle of poisonous substance and he only had three cons versus... _many_ pros. Or maybe it was four? He decided to err on the side of pessimism and consider it four. But it was still four against many. The pros were winning.

There was still a lot about each other they didn't know. Could be a pro, could be a con. They'd spent nearly every day for the last nine months together and despite bickering and the occasional fight, they didn't hate each other. Pro. Cullen appreciated his sense of humor. Pro. Cullen's eyes sparkled when he laughed. Pro. Cullen made him feel like no one else save Felix ever had: loved, supported, and never alone. Pro. He missed Cullen right now. Con. He enjoyed talking to him. Pro. He loved him. Pro. He wanted to marry him. Pro.

_He loved him and he wanted to marry him._

It took two and a half bottles of terrible Avvar ale to reach a conclusion Dorian had known for weeks. Months, even, if he really wanted to be brave about his determination to be honest with himself. He loved Cullen and he _wanted_ to marry him.

Betrothals that lasted years was Tevinter’s way. And in Tevinter’s way, one might only hope to learn to tolerate one’s spouse over the long, interminable years together. Or one might hope for an assassination, depending on one’s spouse’s standing in the magisterium. He was applying Tevinter’s standards, which were dismal at best when it came to love and relationships, to something that had nothing to do with Tevinter. For someone who so enjoyed flouting custom and making his own way despite the opposition he received from his countrymen, Dorian realized that he’d been clinging to the most idiotic of notions about how one ought to behave with a loved one.

He loved Cullen. He wanted to marry him. What could possibly be wrong with that? And why should he wait some predetermined amount of time before taking that step? He knew how he felt. And he knew how Cullen felt. Waiting would only deny them both something they wanted.

Staring into the fire, Dorian laughed. And continued to laugh, delighted with the unexpected turn his life had taken and amused at his own stupidity. He was deeply, ridiculously in love with Cullen. And there wasn't a damn thing he wanted more than to make sure he got to spend as many years as possible with him.

Dorian lifted the third bottle, toasting the fire. Perhaps he even toasted the Avvars' gods in an absent-minded way. They were in everything, weren't they? Surely that meant that there was one in the fire, too.

"Ser Dorian Strong-Arms," he murmured. To himself, to the gods, to the fire, to the world. At this point, as saturated with alcohol as he was, it hardly mattered. "Kind of like the sound of that."

* * *

In the morning, Dorian awoke to the news that Cullen would be returning to the hold around sunset and a truly horrendous hangover. Avvar ale was not nearly as kind to him as the Swift-River wine had been. He spent much of the day in bed, buried beneath the furs, sleeping off the pounding headache and the accompanying nausea. When he could sleep no longer, he cast a tiny bit of healing magic on himself to dispense with the worst of the residual headache, took a few swallows of the dregs of that not yet empty third bottle to forestall further discomfort, and finally got out of bed.

If Cullen truly was arriving by sunset, he wanted to look and feel considerably less like the risen dead. They had some postponed celebrating to do and now that he'd made peace with his decision, he fully intended to get on with it.

Getting something bland and easy on his stomach to eat, and the small bottle of emergency wine he'd been hoarding since the Swift-River festivities, Dorian gathered up his late lunch and took it with him to the hot spring, where he soaked away another hour. By the time he emerged and dressed, he felt even better. Nearly giddy, in fact, because he'd consumed the entire bottle and had had a wine-induced brilliant idea.

In the spirit of his decision to cast off civilization, marry a barbarian, and embrace his life as a savage, Dorian breezed into Cullen's hut, strengthened the fire with an imperious wave of his hand, and began rooting through Cullen's clothes. There wasn't a lot of it, not by Tevinter standards, but most of it was some variety of leather, fur, and the drab, boring neutral-toned fabric the Avvar favored. If he was going to try out being a barbarian, he was at least going to be a fashionable one and refused to put on anything too outlandishly hideous.

The ensemble he ended up in was comprised of high, fur-lined boots that almost fit, a loincloth made of soft black fur, a wide leather belt, one of those bizarre little vest things with a high collar made of that same black fur, and a headdress made of huge feathers, more fur— _Honestly, these people and their fur_ , he'd thought in disgust, though it hadn't prevented him from putting the garish thing on his head—and some vicious looking animal skull. He assumed it was part of Cullen's official thane regalia, as he'd never seen him wear it before. Certainly it would be poor armor in a battle.

There were no mirrors in the hut, which was a shame, but there was a metal tray sitting on the table from their dinner two nights ago. He polished it as best he could with the flap from the loincloth, then peered critically into his somewhat distorted reflection. 

It needed some work. The clothes were too big to wear out in public and he suspected that he'd get the evil eye from somebody if they caught him parading around in the headdress. But the general idea was... something. He wasn't entirely certain what that something was. It wasn't exactly positive, and he'd never dream of wearing anything this ugly in the streets of Minrathous, but he couldn't help wishing that he would capture an image of himself and conveniently leave it somewhere his parents would see it.

Just the thought of his mother's outrage and his father's offended disgust warmed the spiteful cockles of his heart.

The sound of footsteps outside the door startled Dorian out of his musings and he hastily set the tray down, casting about for a place to hide. He wasn't worried about being found in Cullen's hut; by this time, the entire hold knew they were engaged or betrothed or whatever it was called in the south. He had more right to be there than anyone else. What he was worried about was being seen in such an alarmingly unfashionable state.

It was one thing to marry their thane. It was quite another to openly join them in their furry, mud-splattered ways. Not even the pleasant haze of wine could make that prospect appealing.

The door opened as he looking around, and in the absence of a place to hide, Dorian decided to make the best of it. Lounging arrogantly back against the edge of the table, hands braced on top of it at either side of his hips and legs stretched out in front of him, the headdress slipping down over one side of his head, Dorian slapped his haughtiest smirk across his mouth. And found himself meeting Cullen's wide, surprised eyes.

In his slight inebriation, he'd forgotten the time and Cullen's impending arrival.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, Dorian searching frantically for an excuse that would prevent Cullen from _helpfully_ suggesting that he wear traditional Avvar clothes all the time now that he’d gotten over his distaste long enough to try it once and Cullen standing stock-still in the doorway. He wasn't coming up with anything good and was about to just tell him not to get any ideas about the long-term possibilities of his clothing choices when he noticed Cullen's eyes darkening and the surprise giving way to a ravenous sort of hunger that sent a delicious thrill of anticipation through him.

Cullen, it appeared, rather liked the new look. And Dorian, foreseeing an immediate future where he was going to benefit greatly from his brief descent into barbarian role-play, hiked the smirk up a little further.

"Well, what do you think?" he asked smugly. "Do I look like a thane's mate?"

He couldn’t be certain whether it was his voice that snapped Cullen out of his surprise or if he’d just reached the end of his patience. No sooner had that second question been asked than Cullen was stalking across the room like a predator sighting prey. Dorian’s stomach twisted in excitement, his heart beginning to pound simply from the look in those heated golden eyes.

Cullen was on him before he had the chance to say anything else, kissing him so fiercely that he was soon breathless and his hands were clutching at Cullen’s back like he’d fall if he let go. The headdress fell forgotten to the floor. Between the wine, the insistent mouth that was devouring his own, and the hands that slid under the back of the loincloth to grip his bare ass, Dorian’s control was wavering and, quite unintentionally, a few tiny sparks of fire licked over Cullen’s naked back. He surged forward with a low, rough noise that made Dorian’s toes curl in the borrowed boots, crushing him between his body and the table.

At first, Dorian didn’t notice. He was too busy sucking on Cullen’s tongue and experimentally flicking shivery little bolts of electricity along Cullen’s ribs to pay attention to anything that wasn’t at least partially sexual. But eventually, a niggling sense of discomfort pierced the thick fog of lust blanketing his mind and he squirmed, trying to get the table edge out of the small of his back.

Suddenly his mouth was bereft of Cullen and the room was spinning and lurching unsteadily upward. When the disorientation cleared, he found himself turned around and bent over the table, legs kicked into a wider stance. Lukewarm air was brushing the bare back of his thighs, raising prickles of gooseflesh over his skin.

“Cullen?” he asked, pushing himself up on his elbow and glancing over his shoulder.

The man was nowhere to be seen. Dorian blinked, confused, then felt callused hands on his ass, pulling the cheeks apart just seconds before a warm, slick tongue slid upward from the back of his balls to his hole. Moaning a low, garbled curse, Dorian slumped down onto the table, shivering with pleasure.

Again Cullen licked a wide, wet swath along the tender skin almost teasingly. But this wasn’t a slow seduction. His tongue flattened against the muscle ringing Dorian’s hole, licking insistently for a moment before pushing inside him.

A soft sound caught in Dorian’s throat and he let his head fall forward, closing his eyes as Cullen started fucking him with his tongue. It set off sparks of pleasure that radiated through him, through his cock and balls into his stomach and up along the curve of his spine. He tried to say Cullen’s name, he tried to demand that he touch him, as his hips rocked uselessly against the edge of the table, trying to get friction for his cock and finding only maddening air. But he couldn’t form the words and Cullen’s ministrations didn’t abate.

His tongue plunged in and out of him, curling upward as it delved inside him, hinting at the kind of fullness he would feel if it were Cullen’s cock, promising greater pleasure but not yet delivering it. Cullen’s hands kneaded his ass, pressing hard into the muscle, and making him wonder inanely if he would find finger-shaped bruises on his skin later.

Wanting more, he tried rocking back on Cullen’s tongue. Cullen growled a warning and gripped his ass tighter until he stopped moving. Dorian responded with a thin whine of frustration and the growl turned into a dark, knowing chuckle. Groaning, Dorian let his forehead fall against the top of the table, scratching impatiently at the wood.

Cullen kept at him, and when he fucked into him and then sucked hard on the hypersensitive skin covering the rim of his hole, Dorian’s mind went white. An instant later, Cullen’s hand closed around his cock and started roughly pumping with short, insistent pulls that had him gasping for breath and already riding the edge of orgasm. Then he wasn’t riding it at all, as Cullen’s thumb pressed into the slit at the tip of his cock and combined sensations shoved him headlong into it.

He came with a soft cry, going rigid for an instant before pumping his hips into Cullen’s fist. Muscles going limp, he started to slump down onto the table. Cullen sat back and rose to his feet in one swift motion. His hands gripped Dorian’s hips, one dry, one slick with Dorian’s come, and rocked forward, pushing into him. He was wet from Cullen’s saliva and at some point, perhaps when he’s been senseless with orgasm, Cullen must have rubbed oil over his cock to ease the rest of the way. Not fully prepared, Dorian was still relaxed enough that it didn’t hurt when Cullen entered him. The stretch was just the right side of a pleasurable burn, heightened by his temporarily increased sensitivity.

Not wasting time, Cullen soon started to move. He didn’t go slow and he wasn’t gentle. His thrusts were hard and fast, demanding and claiming in equal measure. He wasn’t making love. He was fucking, animalistic and wild. Dorian had long since stopped trying to think. He simply hung on, panting, and soon, too soon, Cullen was coming inside him with a rough groan, his hips jerking frantically before stilling.

Cullen was a hot, sweaty weight against his back as he leaned against him, heart pounding, and savored the bliss of his orgasm. By then, Dorian was starting to get himself back under control.

“That’s a yes, I take it?” he asked after a time, breaking the silence with a sated rasp.

“Mmm,” Cullen murmured unintelligibly by his head, nuzzling his scratchy chin into the back of Dorian’s shoulder.

“Next time,” he mused, a tinge of amusement coloring his voice. “I’ll put on a better show. Do a little dance, maybe."

Inside him, he felt Cullen’s softening cock give a feeble little twitch, and he laughed, soft and utterly delighted. Perhaps there was something to all this fur after all.

* * *

It wasn't a long engagement. Avvar didn't see the point in dragging it out when they knew they wished to be wed. Typically, Dorian learned, they were married as soon after the mock abduction as was feasible. For normal people, that amounted to a few days at most. Cullen, however, was the thane of the clan, not some ordinary warrior, and Red-Lion Hold had decided—quite without Cullen's input—to celebrate the occasion properly. That meant days of hunting and gathering for the feast, sending messenger birds to the outlying clan members to recall them to the hold for the festivities, and tracking down Selkor, who had gone into the forest a week ago on some mysterious lion business and had yet to return.

While he waited, Dorian was pleased to discover that he was actually looking forward to the big day. He'd half expected trepidation and doubt to start sucking the joy out of it for him, but that never happened. He wasn't questioning himself, his decision, or Cullen's feelings for him. And that in itself was worth celebrating.

In defiance to the usual way his life went, Cullen didn’t start getting cold feet either. If anything, he was happier, more gregarious than usual, and wandering dangerously close to exasperating territory with his affection. It wasn’t the random kisses or the embracing that Dorian took issue with. It was Cullen’s habit of randomly lifting him into the air and making to carry him off. Most the time it was in jest, but Dorian had a feeling that if he didn’t kick up a fuss about it, sometimes he really would be carried off to Cullen’s hut, regardless of what he was in the middle of doing or who he was speaking to. It was almost like knowing that Dorian returned his affection and accepted his proposal was enough to change his behavior. And instead of changing him and his attitude toward Dorian for the worst, as Dorian had once feared, it was as if having him in his life in a more permanent manner was making Cullen more vibrantly alive than he’d been before.

It was a frightfully bizarre realization, this positive effect he’d had on the life of another man simply by existing. Dorian was slightly ashamed of himself to admit it, but it made him feel childishly giddy with happiness. So much so, in fact, that by the time the day of the wedding arrived, he could barely tolerate himself.

“I’m smiling all the time,” he complained to Felix that morning via magical crystal, trying desperately to sound like he was thoroughly irritated by the whole nonsense. “It’s disgusting." 

Half a world away, he knew his dearest friend was smiling as widely as his face would allow. He could hear it in his voice. Felix had always been rubbish at keeping his thoughts off of his face and out of his voice. “I’m sure you’re annoying everybody around you. It’s a wonder they haven’t tossed you out on your ear yet.”

Dorian gasped in mock hurt. “This is what you have to say to me on my wedding day? How dare you!”

Felix chuckled, his laughter as smooth and melodious as ever. Dorian was expecting him to fling a line of banter back at him, but as he quieted, Felix said softly, “Dorian?”

“Yes?”

“You know how happy I am for you, don’t you?”

He could _hear_ the love in Felix’s voice. It made his throat tighten alarmingly. “No?” he joked instead, swallowing thickly before continuing. “Are you going to send me a present in demonstration?”

Felix’s smile would be softer now, affectionate and warm, and his dark eyes would be brimming with it. “I wish I could stand with you today,” he said, wistfully.

Dorian’s throat tightened so much it made his eyes burn. And whatever flippant nonsense he was going to say became soft sincerity. “I know, old friend. So do I.”

“He’s really as handsome as you say?”

“Even more,” Dorian assured him. “Shall I bring him to Tevinter so that you can meet him?”

Laughter echoed through the hut. “I’d like that. Tevinter probably wouldn’t, but I would.”

_Tevinter can go hang_ , Dorian thought fiercely. _I’d burn Minrathous to the ground if it would make you happy_. The Blight grew stronger every day. Felix deserved every bit of happiness he could eke out of the world.

“Then I’ll do it,” Dorian said decisively, meaning every word. “We’ll come pay you a visit.”

“Dorian…”

“No, it’s already decided. You said you wanted it, now you’re going to get it.”

Felix laughed again, but there was a hint of gratitude in the sound that Dorian only heard because he knew him so well. Felix knew that he meant it.

_Soon_ , he told himself, already trying to work out how he would present the idea to Cullen. _Once the wedding’s over and the worst of the snow has passed, we’ll go to Tevinter._ They wouldn’t even have to go to Qarinus. They could go straight to Minrathous, meet with Felix, and then leave before there was an Avvar-Tevinter incident that got them both thrown out.

The soft sound of Felix taking a breath brought Dorian’s attention back to the present just in time to hear him say with quiet sincerity, “I love you, Dorian.”

Dorian closed his eyes tightly and forced himself to say in a light voice, “Maybe I should be marrying you instead.”

Felix snorted. “I mean it.”

Carefully, Dorian swallowed and opened his eyes. Softly, he murmured, “I know.”

He could practically hear Felix smile. Two words instead of three, but Felix understood them just the same. “Enjoy yourself today, all right?” A beat, and he added with wicked humor, “Tonight, too.”

Unable to help himself, Dorian laughed. “Of course.”

That was it. That was the end of the conversation. Dorian could nearly _feel_ Felix preparing to say goodbye now that he’d offered his congratulations and wished him luck. Suddenly, he couldn’t do it.

“Felix,” he said, blurting out his best friend’s name.

“Yes?”

Mouth opening, the words didn’t come. _Say it_ , he told himself firmly. _You’ll always regret it if you don’t._ His throat worked for a moment, then for the first time, Dorian said gently, “I love you too, you know.”

Oh, but he could _hear_ Felix grin. “Maybe you _should_ be marrying me, then,” he parroted back at him, sounding like an insufferable, cheeky twit.

“Perhaps I did,” he replied, remembering the work into which he and Gereon had spent so many years pouring themselves. “Maybe there’s a version of our world out there where we did get married.”

“I bet we took over Minrathous,” Felix added on to the fantasy immediately, laughing. “You became Archon and I was… hmm, I don’t know, the Divine, maybe. And together we terrorized the magisterium.”

“Felix,” Dorian chided him. “We’ve been terrorizing the magisterium for years. We don’t need a whole new world for that.”

Felix made a thoughtful sound. “Maybe it’s the constant around which everything hinges.”

_Our friendship?_ Dorian smiled. _If anything’s constant in these imaginary worlds, it’s that_. “Perhaps you ought to suggest that to your father next time he’s looking for a hypothesis to test.”

The peal of Felix’s laughter was the perfect note upon which to end the conversation, and in Dorian’s not so humble opinion, as auspicious a beginning to a wedding as ever there was.

When he stepped outside his hut a short while later, the sky was a deep cerulean with only a smattering of fluffy white clouds to interrupt its endless expanse. The sun shown bright in the middle of it, and as it was rapidly approaching winter, the air _was_ cold. But it wasn’t snowing, the wind wasn’t whipping through the hold, and it wasn’t as cold as it had been last year. It was, arguably, a perfect day for a wedding in the south.

Someone—Dorian suspected Gerrid, it had her romantic attitude all over it—had suggested that the ceremony be held higher up on the mountain, on a large, flat space that looked out over the hold. Groups had been making the short trek up there for the last hour. By the time Dorian arrived—wearing the clothes he’d been wearing the first day he came to the hold, washed and mended until they almost looked like new—practically everybody was already there waiting.

He sought out, and unerringly found, Cullen standing near the augur, who would be performing the ceremony. Vestar had asked if there were Tevinter customs Dorian wanted to include in it, but after thinking it over, he’d said no. As it stood currently, no Tevinter marriage ceremony would honor the joining of two men. There was no reason to bring such short-sighted prejudice into the life—thinking of it that way still sent a thrill through him; perhaps it always would—they were going to build.

Cullen was dressed to look every inch the Avvar thane: high fur-lined boots, actual _trousers,_ the bloody loincloth belted on over top of it, that strange vest he so rarely wore, a dazzling green stone on leather thong around his neck—a gift from Dorian that he’d acquired at Swift-River Hold—and that ridiculously dramatic headdress. He even had war paint darkening his eyes.

He was, in a word, magnificent.

_Mine_ , Dorian thought, a little in awe though he would never, ever admit it. _That man is mine_.

A solid, large furry thing butted into Dorian’s hand. Looking to the side, he saw that Selkor had come up beside him while he’d been standing there taking everything in. Casually, as he never would have dared do when first they’d met, he scratched his fingers through the fur on the top of his head.

“Do I have your blessing to wed your thane, oh brother of my blood?” he asked, heaping on the melodrama as thickly as possible. Though, in the interest of not being overheard by all and sundry, Dorian did keep his voice down.

Selkor’s head tipped back and the huge lion looked at him for a long moment. Then his mouth opened and his tongue lolled out in a feline version of a smile.

“This is what it’s come to,” Dorian muttered under his breath, feigning horror. “Talking to animals. I really am turning into one of these savages.”

Selkor very deliberately licked Dorian’s hand, making him grimace as lion spit slicked his fingers.

“Thanks for that,” he grumbled, wiping his hand along the cat’s back. “Really. Thanks. If you’re feeling like sharing more of that generosity, don’t.”

Edging away, Dorian saw Cullen beckoning toward him and headed over.

“Are you ready?” Cullen asked as soon as he reached his side.

It wouldn’t do to grin like a fool in front of all these people. Dorian met Cullen’s eyes and quirked the corner of his mouth instead. “Having second thoughts on me?”

Cullen clearly knew he was teasing, but his answer was still a vehement, “ _Never_.”

“Well then,” Dorian gestured toward Vestar. “Shall we?”

The bulk of the ceremony was simply standing in front of Vestar with Cullen facing him, listening to a lot of stories of Avvar legends and prayers to the gods. Dorian was sure that it was all very rousing to those who had grown up with the stuff and worshiped the gods around whom the stories centered. To Dorian, who had learned as much as he could about the Avvar during his time with them, it still sounded like a bunch of names and nature words interspersed with battles, snow, and some kind of moral that all seemed to boil down to: _be courageous, strong, and persistent and the gods will favor you._

None of it really mattered to him. He wasn’t an Avvar. He wasn’t pretending to be an Avvar. Cullen didn’t expect him to start painting himself with mud and charging around in loincloths. What mattered to him was the man standing next to him, and as Vestar rambled on about Korth the Mountain-Father and Hakkon Wintersbreath and some Great Bear Someone Or Other, Dorian kept his eyes mostly on Cullen. Of course, Cullen was looking at Vestar, but once he felt Dorian’s eyes, he glanced over with one of those delightfully warm, affectionate smiles. Unable to help himself, Dorian smiled back, barely hearing the long-winded anecdote about the Lady of the Skies and her gift of fire.

Finally, Vestar trailed off and made a beckoning gesture. The cluster of onlookers nearest them parted and two apprentice shamans walked toward them, bearing between them a large coil of rope. As they laid it at Cullen’s feet, Dorian’s eyebrows rose in inquiry. Of all the accessories he might have envisioned necessary for a wedding ceremony, a rope hadn't been among them.

Glancing at Cullen with a crooked smile, he tipped his head toward the rope and asked quietly, "Am I to assume that the ceremony involves binding me in some fashion and carrying me off to ravish me afterward?"

Cullen's shoulders shook slightly with silent laughter. Traces of it lingered in his eyes as he met Dorian's. "No, but if it's a ravishing you want..."

Dorian's smile curled a little higher. "Perhaps if you satisfactorily answer a question for once, I might."

From the corner of his eye, Dorian noticed that Vestar had stepped back and was conversing quietly with Gerrid. At Cullen’s feet, the two apprentices were uncoiling the rope and stretching it out.

Cullen glanced at Vestar and Gerrid for moment, then turned his attention to Dorian. “Do you see the knots in the rope?”

Looking more closely at the rope, Dorian _did_ see the knots. There were dozens of them, stretching from one end of the long thing to the other. It obviously meant something to Cullen and the Avvar, but despite frantically wracking his brain for any mention he might have overheard of this, Dorian couldn’t ascribe meaning to it.

“Yes?”

“When we marry, it’s customary for the woman to sing a hymn to the gods while the man unknots the rope. He has until the hymn ends to untie as many of the knots as possible.”

Dorian didn’t know whether he should be surprised by this or not. Leave it to the Avvar to make everything a competition. “So it’s a test of, what, dexterity? What purpose does it serve?”

“The number of knots the man unties symbolizes the number of years the marriage will last.”

Brow knitting, Dorian eyed the rope again. There were a _lot_ of knots. He didn’t know the average length of an Avvar hymn, but he doubted even someone as physically gifted with strength and speed and every other desirable quality under the sun as Cullen could untie more than ten. Twelve at the most.

“What happens if the marriage lasts longer than however many knots are untied?” he asked, looking back at Cullen.

“It doesn’t.” Cullen shrugged, seemingly unconcerned that he was effectively telling Dorian that this marriage wasn’t going to last. “We are simply thankful for the time the gods give us.”

As he stared at him, Dorian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “So I’ve been relegated to the woman’s role in this marriage?”

“What?” Cullen looked blankly at him for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Gerrid’s going to sing the hymn.” He gestured toward the rope. “If you’d prefer to unknot the rope, you may do so. I assumed that since it was an Avvar tradition, I would carry it out. I apologize for the assumption.”

He looked contrite enough. Dorian shook his head, fighting back the urge to cross his arms over his chest. It was stupid superstition. Spirits didn’t care who married who and for how long. But if Cullen believed in this nonsense, would he dissolve the marriage after a set number of years just because of a _rope_? Would a bloody rope rule their life more than their happiness?

Taking a deep breath, he slowly released it and forced his ire to go with it. Cullen was strong. He could probably unknot a dozen of them. And with a dozen years to work with, Dorian was certain he could persuade him to forget whatever future the rope foretold.

Still, a bit of anxiousness twisted in his stomach as Vestar said they were ready to begin. Gerrid stepped forward and Cullen knelt beside the rope, hands ready to grasp it when she started singing. Dorian ground his teeth together, halfway irritated that even here, somehow a marriage between two men had to involve a woman and stupidly concerned that Cullen wouldn’t be able to untie enough knots.

The first note of praise to whichever god Gerrid had chosen to sing about split the air and Dorian thought, very distinctly, _Fuck this._

With a swift, sharp gesture, he set the entire rope ablaze. Cullen jerked back away from it in surprise as the flame roared up, blindingly white and scorching hot. A gasp rippled through the crowd. Gerrid, caught up in habit, actually sang a few shocked sounding words before trailing off into silence. There wasn’t any reason to continue; the intensity of the fire had incinerated the entire rope in a few short seconds.

Cullen was staring at him in shock. As heavy as the air felt, Dorian suspected that a lot of people were staring at him. _Well,_ he thought. _Let them. And let them hear what I say so this ridiculous nonsense is put to rest for good._

Stepping forward, Dorian pointed an imperious finger at Cullen, who slowly rose to his feet. “Listen to me, Cullen Wolf-Bane,” he said firmly, pitching his voice to carry without increasing its volume. “You are _mine_. On this day, before the gods and your clan, you have pledged to be mine. You will be mine until I let you go.”

Closing the distance, he hooked his finger into the necklace hanging from Cullen’s neck and jerked him forward until only a hairsbreadth separated them. “And I will _never_ let you go,” Dorian growled, yanking down on the necklace and bringing their mouths together in a crushing, possessive kiss.

Once he got over his surprise—at Dorian bucking a generations' old tradition, at the declaration that there would be one thing in his life that was not temporary and changeable, at the fierce kiss he was getting in front of his entire clan—Cullen threw himself into the moment with gusto. His arms closed around Dorian's waist and he pulled him against his chest as though he was trying to prevent the very air from getting between them.

Dorian was breathing quite a bit faster when they parted, but he felt an exhilarated kind of satisfaction at having so eloquently made his point. Splaying a hand against the side of Cullen's neck, he leaned toward him and said quietly, "Say it."

It wasn't necessary for Cullen to ask what he meant. "I am yours."

Dipping his head forward for a quick there-and-gone brush of his lips against Cullen's, Dorian smiled. "And I am yours."

Gently, Cullen traced the edge of Dorian's upper lip with his thumb. "I would keep you until the end of my days, Dorian Pavus."

_This is what I mean to him_ , Dorian thought, once again surprised by the depth of his feelings. Perhaps he always would be. Perhaps being so cherished by another person never got tired and old. _Hope and faith in something he's never had cause to believe in before._

"Then that is precisely what you shall do," Dorian told him. "For I will allow none but you to have me."

Cullen leaned in to kiss him again, in front of the gods and everybody, and just before his eyes closed, it seemed to Dorian that he caught a glimpse of Vestar smiling a knowing, satisfied smile.

* * *

Not many things changed for Dorian after the wedding. In many ways, being married to Cullen was a lot like being his lover. The Avvar treated him the same as they had prior to learning that he was to be Cullen’s husband; there was no bowing or scraping, no acting like he was more important than any other member of the hold, and no sycophantic vying for his favor. It was the exact opposite of what he would have had to endure had he married someone as comparably important in Tevinter. He couldn’t even pretend that he was disappointed by the absence of ass-kissing.

The most dramatic change was in their sleeping arrangements. Dorian gave up his smaller hut and moved his things over into Cullen’s larger one. Now there was no question about whose hut they would spend the night in: the answer was always _theirs_. At first, Dorian tried to keep his clothes separate from Cullen’s simply as a matter of pride. _He_ didn’t want to smell like a wet dog whenever the air got damp. But clothes had a habit of migrating from one trunk to another when their owners’ backs were turned and soon their things were rather thoroughly mixed together. Whenever he was feeling tetchy, Dorian liked to complain about how he smelled, but in truth, neither he nor Cullen smelled like a wet dog and he knew it.

Another minor change was that Dorian could now walk in on Cullen conducting thane business on his uncomfortable looking throne without anyone side-eyeing him for being there. Not that he’d ever let a few pointed stares chase him off when he was curious to see what constituted legitimate thane business, but it was nice to enter the cave and see no one but Cullen react. And Cullen always reacted, even if it was just a quick glance and a subtle twitch of a smile that disappeared as soon as it happened.

He could interrupt things too, or demand that Cullen attend some matter he deemed more important than whatever was currently being dealt with. Dorian never _actually_ interrupted Cullen’s business or redirected his attention to something else. Nothing he wanted was ever more important than what was going on and he knew that this was one of those privileges that he would lose if he abused it for frivolous purposes. But it was nice to know that he _could_ if he wished to do it.

So he paid the throne cave a number of visits whenever he was bored, between things, or the rumor mill churned out an interesting bit of gossip about whatever was going on and he wanted to investigate it firsthand. Sometimes, if magical matters were involved or foreign relations, Dorian sat at Cullen’s side as an integral part of the conversation, lending his expertise and ideas. Those occasions were the ones Dorian enjoyed the most. Politics got tiresome after a while, but once in a while it was fun to dabble and it was nice to feel like a contributing member of the group. 

On this particular day, Dorian was not just bored, but also cold and disgruntled. It had snowed quite heavily the night before and there was a thick layer of snow on top of everything. When he’d woken up to an endless expanse of white and a grey sky that promised more snow, he had pulled the furs over his head and demanded that Cullen remain in bed with him all day. Claiming the husband prerogative had no effect. Cullen had regretfully informed him that he had a meeting with a trader that couldn’t be postponed and had extricated himself from the tangle Dorian had tried to weave around him with his own body with profuse apologies.

Laying in bed alone hadn’t proved as entertaining as doing it with a partner would have, so after a few hours and a significantly intensified fire, Dorian had grudgingly climbed out of bed, put on as many layers as he could without hindering his ability to move, and trudged out into the snow.

It was snowing again when he emerged from the hut. As if the weather itself was telling him to go fuck himself, a huge snowflake landed with aerial precision right on the tip of his nose. Snorting, Dorian scowled darkly at the sky and set out to the throne cave, slogging through knee-deep snow and fantasizing about casting a huge ball of fire on ahead of himself to clear the way. It was a tempting thought, but one he ultimately abandoned. Snow was the gift of some god or other and no doubt half the hold would get up in arms about it if he destroyed it all. Heathens.

The interior of the cave was much warmer than the air outside. Someone, probably not Cullen, had started a fire and piled it high with dry wood so that it burned bright and cheerily in the hearth at the back of the cave. _That person’s getting a commendation of some sort_ , Dorian thought, trying to decide what sort of reward would be appreciated by people who had no use for personal possessions and no real hierarchy in which one could be promoted.

Cullen was slouched on the throne like it was killing him to be there, elbow planted on the armrest and balled up fist pressing into the side of his face. His legs were sprawled out almost obscenely; it was only the lucky fall and fold of the ever-present loincloth that prevented his genitals from being on display.

The first time he’d seen him like this, as a dazed, somewhat frightened prisoner, he thought it had been a show of confidence and power. A man that unconcerned about his state of dress or how much of him was exposed to potential enemies was a man who knew that there was nothing anyone could do to hurt him. But after he’d gotten to know Cullen, he’d realized that it wasn’t posturing. Cullen just didn’t want to be there and didn’t care how he appeared to observers. He might love being thane, but he wanted to be a thane of action. Sitting around self-importantly didn’t appeal to him in the least.

Leaning against the far wall, Dorian folded his arms over his chest and watched Cullen, waiting for him to notice his arrival. Perhaps it was silly romantic nonsense, but he couldn’t help enjoying the moment when Cullen realized that he was in the area. At the moment, he was looking a little glassy-eyed at the trader: an Orlesian man who gesturing extravagantly as he prattled on about potatoes, of all things, and wearing impractically ornate clothing for the climate. Dorian had to bite the inside of his lip to remind himself not to start laughing. Cullen had people who could have handled the man. Why he refused to delegate the unpleasant duties to someone with the patience to handle them would likely go down as one of the mysteries of the ages.

Eventually, Cullen’s gaze slid a little too far to the side and some part of Dorian must have entered his field of vision. His focus sharpened immediately as he looked directly at Dorian’s eyes. It might have been the side-effect of a melodramatic imagination, but Dorian thought that he looked like a drowning man in dire need of rescue.

There was, of course, only one way to handle a situation like that.

Pushing off from the wall, Dorian stepped forward and spread his arms. “Here you are,” he announced loudly, speaking over the Orlesian.

Now both sets of eyes turned to stare at him: the Orlesian in surprise, Cullen in relief.

Strolling up to the Orlesian man, Dorian draped his arm around his shoulders like they were old friends. “Colbin has been looking everywhere for you,” he told him with feigned exasperation. “He heard you were here and, since he’s an avid potato grower, he wanted to hear your opinion of the Tantervale Blue variety.”

Colbin had done nothing of the sort. Dorian didn’t even know if Colbin knew where or what Tantervale was. But that was irrelevant. The trader obviously wanted someone with whom he could discuss in excruciating detail the merits of different species of potatoes, Cullen didn’t want to be that person, and Dorian had never really hit it off with Colbin after all that unfortunate punching and hitting a year ago. As far as he was concerned, it was a punishment that had been a long time coming.

In practically no time at all, and after helpfully providing directions to him, the trader bustled off out of the cave to track down Colbin, leaving Dorian alone with Cullen.

“What have I told you about delegating, amatus?” he asked, shaking his head slowly as he made his meandering way over to the throne.

Cullen moved to straighten up from his boneless sprawl, but when Dorian waved at him to be still, he flopped back down the way he was. “Being thane is not all glorious battle and making love to my husband,” he replied with a lopsided smile. “Sometimes, heart of my heart, I must take up the most onerous tasks so that others might be relieved of their burden.”

It should have been too saccharine to be sincere, but coming from Cullen, there was no other way to take it. Dorian still rolled his eyes, needing to show Cullen that he most certainly was _not_ affected by such romantic drivel. That his stomach was fluttering at this precise moment as if he’d consumed a dozen butterflies was merely a coincidence brought on by his choice of breakfast that morning clearly not quite agreeing with him.

“I suspect that whoever gave you that little pearl of wisdom was speaking of something else,” Dorian remarked dryly, stepping in between Cullen’s spread legs and coming to a stop. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at Cullen critically.

Stubbornly refusing to be chastised for leaving him in a cold bed to visit with a potato enthusiast, Cullen smiled indulgently up at him. “Did you need me, love?”

Dorian had come to the throne cave seeking entertainment without any concrete idea about the form it would take. Had the meeting been about something even remotely interesting, he would have been content to stand there and watch Cullen at work. The firelight threw splashes of light and shadow across his skin in unpredictable patterns. One second, his chest might glow bronze in the light. In the next, the gleam might be lost to shadow. It was quite fascinating to watch and Cullen normally didn’t stay still long enough for Dorian to really indulge. As he was discovering during his time in Red-Lion Hold, it was the little things that made life so enjoyable.

But he wasn’t going to be able to keep Cullen on the throne for long, so staring at him was out. They could talk about something—Dorian enjoyed their conversations and their banter more than he would ever acknowledge out loud—but he was feeling a little too restless to sit around talking. Perhaps if they were back in bed, comfortably wrapped in the furs, he would feel differently.

He tapped his forefinger thoughtfully against his pursed lips, considering his options. Absently, he let his gaze slide slowly over Cullen’s half-reclining body and it was somewhere between the loincloth and his chest that he had an idea.

Shaking his head, he knelt there between Cullen’s legs, resting his hands atop his thighs. “No,” he responded, drawing the sound of the word out a little as he ran his palms upward. With neither warning nor pause, Dorian slid his hands under the loincloth and took Cullen’s limp cock in one of them. “I needed _this_.”

Cullen’s eyes widened in surprise, though rather tellingly, he didn’t try to press his thighs closed or bat Dorian’s hands away. “ _Dorian_ ,” he said, tone halfway between hissed warning and pleased appreciation.  

Dorian considered playing at taking the warning to heart and withdrawing his hands to see how long Cullen would last before he got impatient and told him to get on with it, but the longer he took, the greater the possibility grew that someone would come in looking for the thane, having seen the trader leave and thinking Cullen free to bother. There was no door on the cave, only a curve in the tunnel that prevented the interior from being seen from the outside. They would hear approaching footsteps, and Dorian's position between his legs would conceal what Dorian was doing if he didn't pull away fast enough, but anyone with a brain would realize what was going on.

Small public displays of affection, hugs and kisses mostly, were getting easier for Dorian, but he wasn't quite at the point where he wanted to give a demonstration of the proper technique for sucking someone off.

So he didn't take his hands out from underneath the loincloth. He ran the fingers of one hand up and down the length of Cullen's cock, caressing the velvety soft skin, feeling the flesh swell beneath his touch. He occupied his other hand with Cullen's balls, gently rubbing first one, then the other, intently watching Cullen's face for minute shifts in expression.

Cullen was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, the slightest part already separating his lips. It was rather intoxicating to have this much power of someone. All it took was a few touches and already Cullen was hungry for more. _And to think marriages are such joyless affairs in Tevinter,_ Dorian thought smugly. _Poor fools don't know what they're missing._

"You know," he began conversationally, tone light and wholly at odds with his actions. "I think I've decided that I like this after all."

Admittedly, the statement was a little misleading and he _was_ being a distraction. Dorian couldn't blame Cullen for looking a bit confused by it. He licked his lips. Dorian tamped down on an impatient desire to taste them. "Was there a time you didn't?"

Stringing him along just a few moments longer, Dorian sniffed, simultaneously rubbing his thumb just firmly enough over the slit to slightly part it. Cullen drew in a sharp breath. "Only the entirety of the year." He adopted a tone of mock offense. "Don't you listen to me at all?"

“What?” The question was equal parts confusion and concern.

Chuckling softly under his breath, Dorian nudged the loincloth back out of the way. “This ridiculous loincloth, you foolish man,” he told him fondly. “Not your cock.”

And to demonstrate that it wasn’t a part of his anatomy that he’d been on the fence about for a year, Dorian leaned forward and ran the flat of his tongue over the tip of his cock. His eyes never left Cullen’s. “I’ve always been rather fond of this.”

Cullen made a soft, hissing sound and reached out, threading his fingers through the longer hair on the top of Dorian’s head. “What changed your mind?”

Dorian smirked smugly. “Ease of access.”

After that, he didn’t say anything else for a time.

He took Cullen’s cock into his mouth and coaxed it to full hardness through a judicious application of firm lips and a clever tongue. Cullen shifted on his throne, leaning back against the high back and easing his hips closer to the edge of the seat. Dorian knew what he was doing, but he did nothing to dissuade him from it yet. Fucking his mouth wasn’t on the table, _Dorian_ was in control at the moment, but he was willing to allow him the illusion of it for the moment.

Cullen’s fingers tightened marginally in his hair, gently tugging on it to get him to slide further down his shaft. Dorian obliged, taking him deeper into his mouth as he chuckled, and Cullen tipped his own head back, groaning, as the vibrations added an extra layer of sensation to the slow bobbing of Dorian’s head and the friction of his tongue.

For a few moments, Dorian massaged Cullen’s balls as he licked and sucked his cock, tugging gently until Cullen made a thin sound of need and rolled his hips, seeking more friction. Dorian placed a hand against his hip, pushing him back down into the throne. Cullen could have fought him, but he didn’t, subsiding into stillness with a faint whimper of frustrated impatience. In reward, Dorian let his other hand trail back away from his balls, along the soft skin of his ass. When he circled faintly puckered skin with his fingertip, Cullen bucked again, hand gripping convulsively at his hair.

Pulling off his cock, Dorian allowed the tip of it to brush against his lips as he smiled and said, “I bet you wish you would’ve stayed in bed with me now, don’t you?”

“This is nice,” Cullen replied, a little breathless. He tried to nonchalantly squirm closer to Dorian’s finger, but he inched it back, deliberately keeping it outside of him.

“True,” he agreed, idly licking up a drop of liquid beading at the tip of Cullen’s cock. “But you know, I _could_ be fucking you right now.” In illustration, he eased his finger in past the tight ring of muscle barring him from Cullen’s body. “ _Really_ fucking you,” he continued, speaking over Cullen’s low groan of pleasure.

“What’s stopping you?” Cullen asked, voice hoarse with lust and the strain of holding back his need for more.

Dorian laughed softly, the sound fond, and smothered the tail-end of it by sucking on the head of his cock. “This is a bit too public for me, amatus,” he said once he pulled off. “I’m afraid this is all you get right now.”

The grip on his hair loosened as, for a moment, Cullen stroked his head. “I’m happy with this.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow.

After a tiny hesitation, Cullen uttered a breathless sort of laugh. “All right, I’m happy with this, but later, I want you to fuck me. Better?"

“Much,” Dorian murmured in satisfaction, then bent his head to resume his work.

It didn’t take long after that. Dorian worked him with smooth efficiency, sucking at him just a bit more insistently, taking him into his mouth just a fraction faster. He didn’t fuck him with his finger, simply crooked it at the knuckle and felt around until Cullen swore under his breath and bucked his hips again. Spot found, Dorian massaged it as he sucked, putting more of his weight into pressing Cullen’s hips down with the other hand as he got more desperate.

When he came a minute or so later, it was with a soft whisper of Dorian’s name. Feeling extraordinarily proud of himself, Dorian kept his mouth around him until he slumped backward, limp and boneless in the aftermath of his orgasm. Easing his finger out of him as gently as possible, Dorian licked his way up his shaft, cleaning the stray drops of come off of his skin, and then let him slip from his mouth.

Licking his lips, Dorian sat back on his heels and studied him for a moment, all the more tempting for his soft smile and pliancy of his body as he sprawled there, looking thoroughly debauched. He hadn’t been playing coy earlier. They really couldn’t have sex in the cave in the middle of the day. That they’d gotten away with this much without being discovered had been a stroke of good fortune. But Dorian’s hand still strayed to his own erection, trapped beneath the thick fabric of his trousers and aching for contact. He rubbed his palm against it, enjoying the simple pleasure he got from even that little bit of friction.

It was when he noticed that Cullen was watching him that he figured out how to get some relief of his own. He pressed his hand against himself, experimentally arching into it, and grinned wickedly when Cullen made a soft sound of appreciation.

“See something you like?” he teased, fingers going to the lacing of his trousers.

Cullen was spent. Dorian knew there was no way he was getting another erection so soon, but he licked absently at his mouth anyway, and Dorian knew that if it was possible, he would be getting hard again. “Touch yourself for me,” Cullen murmured huskily.

Dorian swept into as exaggerated a bow as he could, kneeling on the ground as he was. “As my thane commands.”

Unknotting the laces, Dorian was reaching into his trousers to free himself when the sound of footsteps echoed along the tunnel leading to the cave. Yanking his hand away, he quickly did up his trousers and pulled his cloak around himself, hiding his erection from view as Cullen sat up straight and pushed his loincloth down so that he was, to his mind anyway, decent. The irritation Dorian felt at being interrupted faded into a prickle of unease as he realized the footsteps were running.

One of the younger warriors burst into the cave seconds later, pale faced and breathing hard. Whichever part of the hold he’d come from, he’d clearly run the whole way.

“Thane!” he shouted, skidding to a stop. “Thane, come quickly!”

They both leapt to their feet, Dorian getting out of Cullen’s way and Cullen reaching for the sword propped against the side of the throne. Seeing that Cullen was on his way, the warrior ran back the way he’d come, Cullen at his heels and Dorian right behind him, mind awhirl with possibilities for the cause of alarm.

An attack by more raiders? An accident that had injured someone? One of Vestar’s apprentices becoming an abomination? They were the most reasonable options Dorian’s mind offered and they were all of them so very, very wrong.

Bursting from the mouth of the cave, they came to an abrupt, horrified halt. High in the sky, some great distance away, yet still near enough to see it clearly, was something so impossible that for a moment, Dorian’s mind couldn’t process what he was seeing.

“By the Lady,” Cullen whispered next to him, and it was the sound of true terror in his voice that snapped Dorian out of his astonishment.

There was an enormous tear, edged in blinding emerald light, in the sky. Around it, clouds swirled like a hurricane, a churning mass of grey and black that flashed with bursts of sickly green lightning. As they watched, brightly glowing balls of green fire shot out of it and plummeted toward the earth.

“I take it this isn’t a usual sight for the south,” Dorian said dryly, trying to lighten the sense of doom rapidly descending over them all and failing miserably.

“No.” Cullen’s eyes hadn’t left the hole in the sky. Looking at his profile, Dorian could see that his face was as pale as the young warrior’s had been. After a moment of heavy silence, he looked at Dorian. “Do you know what it is?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to scoff at him, but the impulse to do so faded as Dorian realized that Cullen wasn’t asking as a joke or because he had any clue himself. He was asking a legitimate question because Dorian was a Tevinter mage and might possibly possess some knowledge about whatever was happening to the sky.

Dorian shook his head, his gaze straying in morbid fascination to the terrible looking tear. “No. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Beside them, the warrior whispered, his voice shaking, “It’s the end of the world.”

* * *

If the world _was_ ending, it didn’t seem to be in a hurry to do it.

That first day, there had been panic in the hold. Families gathered together, people prayed to the gods for aid, and Cullen and Dorian had climbed to the top of the mountain to get a better look at the hole in the sky. The part of Dorian that was fascinated by things he didn’t understand had wished he could get a closer look at the phenomenon. The part of him that wanted to live a long, mildly eventful yet ultimately joyful life with Cullen had wished they were too far away to even see it.

But the sky didn’t fall, as so many people feared. The hole didn’t get noticeably bigger that first day, and whatever was occasionally seen falling from it never fell into the hold. The fear didn’t exactly diminish after that, but when it became apparent that they didn’t have mere hours to live, the Avvar pulled themselves together and started to make plans to find out what was going on and what, if anything, they could do to stop it.

Cullen formed scouting parties out of volunteers and sent them off to the nearby holds to find out if any of the other clans knew anything. Dorian contacted Felix through the crystal, but his friend told him that no one in Tevinter knew what was going on either.

As days slowly turned into a week, information remained scarce and difficult to come by.

Dorian began sleeping very poorly, his rest often interrupted by unintentional trips to the Fade, which had grown more treacherous since the hole in the sky appeared. Spirits were everywhere and the number of demons he encountered was higher than normal. He thought it was strange, but he didn’t connect the two events as anything more significant than general unrest everywhere until a scout reported a small hole in the air in the forest, comprised of the same diseased green light as the tear in the sky, spitting demons into the world.

“It’s the Fade,” Dorian told Cullen that night when they were both in the hut. “That tear in the sky leads directly to the Fade.”

Unlike many Avvar, Cullen knew what he was talking about without having to ask for clarification. “How do you know?”

“The demons Kival saw in the forest,” Dorian replied. “They came from a smaller hole. And my dreams have been...” He paused, searching for a word. “Restless. I’ve crossed over into the Fade more in the last week than I’ve done in a month. The demons and spirits have been riled up. I believe that big tear is the reason why all of this is happening.”

Though, how the tear might be closed was beyond him.

The next day, he traveled with Cullen and a number of Sky Guardians to the smaller hole in the forest. They found plenty of demons there, and together, they slew them all, but none of the spells Dorian knew could close the hole and eventually, they had to return to the hold. Afterward, a rotating guard of warriors and shamans remained in the forest at all times, killing the demons that came through. It was a stop-gap measure and everyone knew it, but for the foreseeable future, it was all anyone could do.

Dorian met with Vestar and the shamans often at first, then daily, as they struggled to come up with a solution. The huge tear in the sky remained an overarching concern, but their immediate worry was the hole in the forest. If that grew larger, the number of demons that came through might increase to overwhelming numbers. Just as troubling was the possibility that more holes would open, leading inevitably to the same problem: too many demons and not enough people capable of killing them.

And the barrier between the world and the Fade was weakening. Dorian could see the signs not just in the holes in the sky or the increased number of demons and spirits when he walked the Fade in his sleep. He could see it in his own magic, which was becoming both more powerful and more erratic as time passed.

Something had to be done. Soon. Or they were all in serious trouble.

One afternoon, about a month after the sky tore open, Cullen was called to meet with Vestar and Dorian, feeling anxious and restless, returned to their hut and put out a call to Felix through the crystal. Almost immediately, Felix answered.

“Dorian!” Felix’s voice was a mixture of surprise and urgency. And oddly, it was very hushed. “I was just going to contact you.”

“What’s the matter?” Dorian demanded, skipping the pleasantries as his anxiety sharpened dramatically.

“It’s Father,” Felix replied. Dorian’s skin prickled. “He’s joined a cult.”

He frowned, staring at the crystal as if simply by willing it to be so, he could see Felix’s face. “What kind of cult?” It didn’t sound like Gereon at all.

“A Tevinter supremacy group.” Felix made a frustrated noise, halfway between a sigh and a groan. “They call themselves the Venatori and they’re following something called the Elder One.”

When he’d walked inside, Dorian had sat himself down on the edge of the bed. Now, he pushed himself to his feet and started pacing around the inside of the hut, nearly crackling with nervous energy.

“Let me guess,” he said after a moment, voice sharpening sarcastically. “This Elder One has something to do with the hole in the sky?”

“Yes. That’s why I needed to talk to you. They’re looking for someone called the Herald of Andraste. Father’s already made the arrangements. We’re leaving for Ferelden tomorrow.”

That was new. And unexpected. And unbelievably irresponsible of Gereon, considering Felix’s delicate health. The Gereon Alexius Dorian knew would never do anything to jeopardize his son’s life like this. But that man would never subscribe to the mad raving of supremacists either.

He groped around for an appropriate response, but all that came out of his mouth when he opened it was, “What?”

“You heard me. I don’t know what’s going on, but Father’s acting strange.” Felix paused suddenly, causing fear to spike through Dorian. Had he been discovered? From his whispers, it was obvious that he wasn’t meant to be speaking of any of this to anyone. But before Dorian could hiss his name, Felix continued, “I need your help.”

“Of course,” Dorian responded immediately. “What do you need?”

“Meet me in Redcliffe. That’s where Father’s taking us.”

Dorian didn’t want to leave the hold. Not through any great love of the south or the dilapidated buildings that made up the clan’s home, but because of Cullen and the people he’d grudgingly come to like. Leaving them now during a crisis like this felt like a betrayal. But this was Felix. Felix was family. And Felix had never asked him for his help before. Not even in delirious, pained desperation to find a cure for the Blight.

“I’ll leave first thing in the morning,” he said, without so much as a brief hesitation.

He’d have to speak with Cullen, find some way to make him understand. He had all night. He could do it. And if he couldn’t... Dorian’s stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot at the prospect of driving a wedge between them, but what other choice was there? He couldn’t abandon Felix to whatever madness his father had succumbed to. And if there _was_ a connection between the leader of this cult and the tear in the sky, Dorian owed it to everyone to find out.

Perhaps the knowledge he gained from this Venatori group could be used to close the bloody thing. Perhaps not, too. But he wouldn’t know for sure until he tried.

“Thank you, Dorian,” Felix said softly. “I appreciate it.” A beat, and he added, “And I’m sorry.”

Dorian huffed dismissively. “Don’t be sorry. Just... Just stay safe until I get there, all right?”

There was the faintest hint of a smile in Felix’s voice when he promised, “I will.”

They terminated the connection after that, Felix because he said he heard his father coming and Dorian because he had to pack for his journey north. He waffled for a moment about whether he ought to speak to Cullen first, but time was of the essence. He needed to make ready now. Besides that, he didn’t want to give himself any reason to linger if the conversation went badly. There was no choice here. He _had_ to go.

It took him an hour to get his things ready. He wasn’t taking much, he wanted to travel as quickly as possible and needed to travel light, but he still wanted to make sure that he took the most important, useful things with him: the warmest clothes, his spell book, the handful of lyrium potions he’d acquired over the year’s time he’d spent at the hold, and enough rations to last him two weeks. He was shoving the last bit of that into his pack when the door opened and Cullen walked in.

Dorian froze, feeling a wash of regret and guilt even though he knew that he was doing the right thing, then looked up at Cullen sheepishly. In the moment, he wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to make the connection, but later, he would realize that this was all very similar to Cullen’s actions the night of the near-disaster of a proposal.

“Cullen, I...” Trailing off, he stopped, uncertain how to even begin.

Cullen’s expression was indecipherable. He didn’t look shocked or upset or even angry to see Dorian clearly packing in a rush for a long journey. In fact, he looked remarkably calm. _Shock_ , Dorian thought nervously. _He’s in shock. And he’s going to hate me for abandoning him like this._

“The augur told me that you would be leaving the hold,” Cullen said mildly, saving Dorian the discomfort of broaching the subject.

_Of course he did_ , Dorian thought, uncertain if the flicker of emotion he felt was relief that Cullen already knew or annoyance that Vestar couldn’t butt out of this and let him tell his husband himself.

“I have to,” Dorian said, the words leaving his mouth in a rush as he straightened up and dropped the last package of rations into his satchel. “Felix just contacted me. He and his father are coming to Ferelden with a cult. Its leader is someone connected to the hole in the sky. If I go, I can find out what’s happening and probably how to fix it.”

“I know,” Cullen said softly.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to go, but if there’s even a chance that the answer lies with them, I can’t just—” Belatedly, he processed what he’d just heard Cullen say. He frowned. “What do you mean, you know?”

“The augur said you were going to find a way to heal the sky,” Cullen replied. “He said that you would succeed if you went and that if you didn’t, the world would be plunged into darkness.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he couldn’t find the words to say anything at all. That was more than he’d dared to hope and he almost refused to let himself believe that it was true. Seeing signs and portents in everything was what shamans did. And there had never been any indication that the things Vestar saw ever truly came to pass. _He was probably guessing_ , Dorian told himself before he could get caught up in hope’s dangerous embrace. _Or telling Cullen that just to make it easier on him._

“So you must go,” Cullen was saying. “And I am coming with you.”

It was like a physical blow, one that pushed the air from his lungs and left him practically gasping for breath. Because Cullen traveling with him on the journey would make it so much easier—safer, less lonely, pleasant, less riddled with guilt—for him. In a perfect world, which this clearly wasn’t, Cullen coming with him would be the best solution. But Cullen _couldn’t_ accompany him.

“You can’t,” Dorian said, hating himself for arguing against something he longed for, yet unable to let Cullen do that to himself. “You’re the thane. You have to stay here and lead the clan.”

Cullen shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Thane.” Dorian stared at him as if he’d just lost his mind. “I gave up the title a quarter of an hour ago. The Elders are deciding who will take my place now.”

“Are you _insane_?” Dorian’s voice was rising, but he didn’t care. Cullen couldn’t just stop being thane. He loved it! More than that, the clan needed him. “You can’t just quit! Why would you even consider something like that?”

Crossing the room, Cullen ignored Dorian’s tirade and slid his arms around his waist, drawing in against his chest. “My days have not yet ended,” he said peacefully.

There was a brief moment where Dorian had no idea what he was talking about. Then he remembered what Cullen had said on the day of their wedding and shook his head. When that wasn’t enough, he placed his hands against Cullen’s chest and pushed him back a few inches.

“Cullen, I’m coming back. I’m not leaving forever. You can still—”

“No,” Cullen interrupted gently. “You won’t come back.”

Dorian frowned, insulted by Cullen’s lack of faith in him. “Do you honestly believe that I would leave you? I married you, you fool. Of course I’ll come back.”

It seemed as though the more upset Dorian got, the calmer and more serene Cullen became. He stroked his thumb along Dorian’s cheek, then leaned in and kissed his forehead. “You may wish to return, but you won’t. The augur told me that when you leave, you will never return.”

_When_ he left. Not _if_ he left. The distinction wasn’t lost on Dorian. Against his wishes, it made him marginally more inclined to believe Vestar’s prediction.

“He told me that I had a choice,” Cullen continued, and as he looked into his eyes, Dorian saw only peace. There was no regret, no sorrow, no anger that he had to make this choice in the first place. “He told me that I could let you go or I could renounce my position and accompany you.”

There was something Cullen wasn’t telling him. He could sense it, like a low, unintelligible murmur just at the edge of his hearing. “ _But_?” he prodded.

Cullen rolled his shoulders as if the consequences were irrelevant. “If I went with you, I would never return to the hold.”

He wasn’t just giving up his position and his title. He was giving up his clan and his home, his family and friends and everything he had ever known. _For Dorian_.

“Cullen,” Dorian started, feeling an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. It was breaking his heart to say this, but he loved this idiot man. If Cullen was willing to give up everything for him because he loved him, he could do no less. “I can’t ask you to give up your life for me.”

“You aren’t asking me. And it’s already done.” Ignoring the surprise still etched all over Dorian’s face, Cullen leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the lips. “We leave with the dawn.”

And they did.

As the sun’s light crested the peaks of the mountain, the clan gathered before the gates of Red-Lion Hold to see them off. Cullen stood beside him, wearing thick fur-lined boots, trousers, a wide fur-lined belt, the damn loincloth, fur-lined bracers, one of those strange furry vests, a thick coating of mud and war paint, and his enchanted sword. A large pack was strapped to his back and one eagle feather—belonging to Falkyr in remembrance of the friend he was leaving behind—was woven into his hair.

Dorian watched as he embraced each member of the clan, murmuring words of advice and care to each and every one of them. Dorian shook hands with a number of people, feeling again an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. For all his extensive complaining, he was going to miss this place and these people. He’d been happy here. It wasn’t home, exactly—home was the man beside him, giving up his world for a spoiled Tevinter mage—but it had been a _part_ of his home.

Vestar surprised him by pulling him into a hug. “The blessings of the Lady go with you, Dorian Pavus.”

“I hope so,” Dorian muttered. “We’re going to need them.”

Vestar pulled back, looking at him critically. “I do not jest. She has blessed you as she has blessed him. For just as you are his gift from her, so is he to you.”

_“The gods had given me three gifts_ ,” Dorian recalled Cullen telling him once. “ _One of those was a fire that none could extinguish.”_ He stared at Vestar in disbelief. “Are you telling me that _I’m_ supposed to be this miraculous fire that doesn’t go out?”

The augur smiled. Strangely, Dorian was reminded of the way he’d smiled at their wedding. As if everything had happened as he’d known it would. “It is your element, is it not?”

There was something witty and reasonable Dorian could say in response to this madness, he knew. Something poignant and wise. But it didn’t immediately come to mind and before he could chase after it, the crowd parted and Selkor padded silently toward them on his huge furry paws.

Here was another friend Dorian was going to lose. Strange, to feel sorrow for leaving an animal behind. Even a possessed one. But there it was, a truth he couldn’t deny.

“Come to see us off, brother?” he teased, trying to cover up his discomfort at having to say goodbye to the beast.

Selkor gave him a look that would have been pained on a human and turned toward Vestar. The augur smiled patiently, and after a nod toward the lion, said to Dorian, “Selkor will travel with you.”

“What?” Dorian looked between Selkor and Vestar, already shaking his head. “He _can’t_. He’s a giant lion! A _red_ lion! And he’s your hold-beast! Everybody keeps saying that we’re not coming back, so he can’t just leave his—”

Standing up on his hind legs, Selkor put his two front paws on Dorian’s shoulders, butted him in the face gently with his flat, furry head, and then, just before he dropped back to the ground, licked him across the face for good measure.

Grimacing in disgust at the cat spit, Dorian furiously scrubbed his face on his sleeve. “Now you’re _really_ not invited, you disgusting beast.”

Cullen joined them before it could turn into an argument. After receiving a hug from Vestar that looked like it might have bruised his ribs, he patted Selkor on the head in greeting and turned to Dorian. “Shall we go?" 

“The lion wants to come with us, amatus,” Dorian told him, foolishly expecting back-up against this ridiculous notion.

Of course, Cullen just grinned in welcome at the lion and inclined his head in a nod. “We welcome you, brother. May our hunt prove successful with your aid.”

“Oh, for—” Dorian’s protest died as Cullen turned that blasted smile on him.

“Shall we go, husband?”

Heaving a sigh, he gestured toward the gate. “Unless you’d like to pick any more wild animals before we go?”

Laughing—and Dorian was immensely thankful that Cullen was laughing as he prepared to leave his home forever—Cullen raised a hand in farewell to his clan and, with Dorian and Selkor the now _former_ hold-beast, they set forth on their journey north, the malevolent green hole in the sky flashing with lightning ahead of them. Dorian half-expected Cullen’s good humor to be a front until they passed beyond sight of the hold, but after turning a curve that put the side of the mountain between them, his attitude didn’t change.

_He really does love me_ , Dorian thought, struck again by the wonder of it all.

An hour later, the shrill cry of a bird of prey interrupted a debate about the quickest way to Redcliffe. Looking up, they saw a large shape spiraling down toward them. Dorian squinted to get a better look at it, but the effort wasn’t necessary.

With a cry of joy, Cullen lifted his fist and Falkyr alighted on top of it. Dorian stared in disbelief for a moment, then sighed in defeat. They had a lion. Why not an eagle? Two men, a lion, and an eagle journeying north to take on a dangerous cult and a gaping hole in the sky. Why not?

Perhaps they could pick up a bear on their way through the Hinterlands.


End file.
